


However improbable

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Werewolf John, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:16:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case  forces John and Sherlock to redefine their definition of impossible and deal with the consequences. Here be wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. Let's Write Sherlock's challenge 11 is divided in three major branches: Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Monster. I already wrote a story each for the first two branches, and now am completing the triptych. First chapter is John's point of view.

I had always known that Sherlock would be the death of me someday (by proxy, of course; he wasn't a murderer). But I had never factored in – not even after Baskerville – that something quite like this could happen.

We had been contacted by the relative of a young girl whose brutal death had found no explanation satisfying enough for our client. It had been chalked up to rabid strays – as she was literally half-eaten – but she worked with dogs and the relative was sure she'd know how to deal with them. Sherlock had connected to her death a few other similar cases which had happened on a widespread area, all too strangely timed for it to be really the work of wild dogs.

Probably a serial killer, he'd proclaimed enthusiastically, that then gave the body to his (surely abused and half-feral) dogs to mess up the traces. Perhaps – considering a few recently buried bodies dug out and ripped into in a nearby graveyard – a cannibal who had finally decided to get himself some fresh meat.

That the case had Sherlock beaming wasn't a surprise. The dogs' use had ensured that New Scotland Yard and the professional forensics didn't even start to suspect someone's involvement, and this criminal promised to be clever and ruthless. Even if eventually we discovered cleverness had very little part in the killings, so in that it was a disappointment – I guess.

It was time for our murderer to hunt again (he had an obvious system), and Sherlock and I were hoping to stop him, since we had a clear enough idea of his modus operandi and patterns. Finally, one bright night, we stumbled on a crime scene. Well, when I say crime scene...we slipped inside a nightmare might be more adequate a description.

There was a dead body, of course, but the thing heartily biting into it wasn't a stray, nor indeed a dog of any kind. It had to be at least a wolf, going by its size alone. He raised bloody jaws from his meal and – very clearly – snarled, “Sod off. I'm not sharing.”

I honestly have no idea if I would have obeyed such an order had I been alone, but Sherlock had frozen and was – as far as I could tell- trying to blink away what was happening. Which might not have been an altogether bad idea, I thought at the time.

But then the wolf (tail-less; weird which things stick in your head) looked up and grumbled, “Unless you're offering to be dessert. _Are_ you?” and leaped towards us, so willing him to disappear clearly wasn't working. I did the only sensible thing (I still maintain that). I shot him. I should have done so before, really, but I was too weirded out to act. Sadly, that didn't even slow him down. So, with no time to think, I just shoved Sherlock out of the way and braced for the impact.

A giant wolf jumping on you and then quite intent on trying to chew through your chest is bloody painful, let me tell you. I really thought I'd die. And the only thing going through my head was, “God, give him enough sense to run now.” Vain hope, of course.

A moment later Sherlock was hissing, “Let him _go_ ,” and attempting to bodily dislodge him from me. It annoyed the wolf, who turned on him, and for a moment I closed my eyes not to see the worst I feared would happen. But then I heard the sound of breaking glass, a blaring alarm and a mighty yowl.

Sherlock must have dodged, and so the wolf had ended breaking a shop window and lying half on top of a jewelry display. It rolled away hurriedly. Oh, right. Werewolf. Silver. I doubted that Sherlock would know that, but he'd seen the adverse reaction of the beast. He wasn't about to investigate the whys and hows. He took something from the display and chucked it to the snarling wolf. The very snarl was the ruination of the creature, because the projectile – skill or luck – lodged into its throat. We had a choking wolf, and soon a dying wolf, reverting to human form. Not that it saved him.

The second the monster stopped being a threat, Sherlock was by my side asking, “What do I do?” with a scared look on his face.

And now that I wasn't worried sick over him, I noticed that for someone bitten by a werewolf and supposed to be dying of blood loss, I felt considerably good. “Put pressure on the wound,” I instructed anyway.

He did so, and a moment later whispered in amazement, “John? The wound is closing.”

It really was, and soon I had only an ugly scar to show for it. “Let's go home,” I said. Before the police arrived, alerted by the alarm, and accused us of robbery and murder.

When we were safely ensconced home, Sherlock declared, “We _must_ have been drugged. But how? When?”

“You figure it out. I'm going to sleep and hope that this turns out to be a nightmare,” I replied.

Which it didn't. Of course not. Just my luck. I had to point it out the following morning, panic in my voice. “Sherlock. I've got the scar.”

“Was it all true, then? How can it be?” he countered, sounding lost. But he must have decided that we couldn't both panic, because then he continued, “No matter. It's clearly not impossible, since it happened. People called chemists alchemists in the past, before the truth was understood. You are currently an unknown quantity, but we're going to figure you out. Don't worry, John.”

“I'm not your fucking experiment,” I growled, surprising the both of us.

“I just want to help, John,” he said, subdued.

“Yeah, of course. Sorry. I...don't know why I lashed out like that.” _Liar._ “Know what? Experiment away. I authorize you. At least you won't be bored.”

Later, when DI Gregson came to talk about the two bodies and the weird theft, Sherlock dismissed him with a curt, “Otherwise busy.” He was being as truthful as he could be. Gregson was rather put out at being refused, but had to give it up.

We researched, obviously concentrating on treatment of my...condition (and, to my insistence, contagion – the last thing I want is to contaminate Sherlock too). Sadly we had no reliable source, so we had to dig through a lot of veritable nonsense. Becoming a werewolf after sleeping outdoors with the moonlight shining on your face? “I'd have a Wolves Network,” Sherlock remarked.

Some things were honestly weird (even considering how fantastical our life had become). Changing into a wolf by drinking water from a werewolf's footprint? Who would? ...On second thought, _Sherlock_. Well, that was one experiment we wouldn't be trying. I wouldn't let him. I would even stretch it to being careful that he does not drink from my mug, even after washing it.

In the end, as long as I don't attack him, flat sharing turns out to be surprisingly fine for infection's risk as long as I don't attack him. Only that isn't as obvious as it should be – not attacking him. I scare myself, but I'm really half a monster now. Things that would have made me barely roll my eyes before now elicit feral growls. Sherlock has started tiptoeing around me, trying not to set me off. It breaks my heart, but I don't tell him to stop walking on eggshells. He's just being necessarily careful.

Once, soon after my change, he tried snarling back at me when I lashed out, perhaps attempting to make me cower. Before I had consciously decided anything (that's what terrifies me; _It_ takes the lead suddenly and completely) I had Sherlock – who didn't expect such an overboard reaction – bodily subdued on the floor, and he was spewing apologies, fear in his eyes. I didn't break any skin that time, but it was way too close for comfort.

After that, I tried telling him that I would find other accommodations – somewhere _alone –_ but Sherlock refused adamantly to agree to my project. “ _It should have been me,_ John. I'm not letting you go through this on your own,” he declared earnestly. I tried telling him that he didn't have to – to think like that, to do any of this.

When my friend stubbornly insisted, meaningfully saying, “You don't get to have things your way, John. Not this time. Not about this,” I relented. I was too grateful for his help – hell, for his very presence – to press the issue as I know I should have. I despised my weakness, but still I couldn't make myself leave him.

If not about that, I at least did what I had to do about something. I had a silver bullet created. I refused to become a monster. Sherlock knew – he's _Sherlock_ , of course he knew even if I didn't tell him – but he never mentioned it.

As for remedies to my condition, we have tried the mildest ones (well, not that there's much mild in drinking plenty of vinegar). These did exactly nothing, but making me sick sometimes. Concerning the more vicious ones (such as piercing the subject's hands with nails), Sherlock, lead scientist that he was, refused to even consider them. That I asked seemed to make no difference.

“I'm not _torturing_ you, John,” he stated vibrantly.

I'd try them by myself, but I was likely to faint half-way through or otherwise become unable to complete the requirements, and then I would have accomplished exactly nothing but hurting myself and forcing Sherlock to take care of me.

I tried to explain to him that any agony would be worth it if it made safe for people to be around me again. To be honest, Sherlock was the only one who had ever set off the beast yet, but I spoke generally all the same.

My friend objected quietly that the wolf was likely to attack viciously if we tried to drive him out so brutally. I was forced to recognize that wasn't wrong, but still I wished to persuade him to attempt them. When Sherlock concluded, “and I would let it rip me apart for doing that to you,” I dropped the matter. Christ, Sherlock. There was no reasoning with him when he got like that.

Another possibility that I was interested in was wolfsbane (there should be a reason for it to hold that name), but once again Sherlock was entirely adverse to trying it out. Aconitum napellus, aka wolfsbane, is a lethal poison for perfectly normal human beings, beside (perhaps) curing lycanthropy. Sherlock could tell me off the top of his head how many killers had used it in the past century and then continue with these murders' details if I so wished. He decreed that in no way he would be the one to accidentally kill me. I didn't mention that he'd likely be forced to kill me intentionally soon (well, I hoped to spare him that). The matter wasn't something Sherlock could be rational about, clearly, as odd as it sounded. At least not at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not mine, don't sue. Sherlock's point of view this time.

Our first month had almost ended, and I was no closer to resolving the issue. I had no solution to offer. Sherlock Holmes, failure.

I _knew_ that John wouldn't want to live as a monster, and it terrified me. I couldn't go back to my life before John. I surely couldn't revert to that bleak existence I experienced without my conductor of light. Not as a result of my own stupidity. _I_ had dragged John into that godawful case. He was trying to protect _me_ , unreasonable as that was (surely I wasn't worth it; didn't John know?). I couldn't have him die because of it, and survive that knowledge.

I held onto a last hope. I couldn't treat his condition, not yet, but if we found a way to manage it adequately, perhaps he would consent to live anyway. I wasn't above pleading to obtain it.

When finally the full moon was upon us, in the afternoon I caught John staring at his gun. (I may or may not have invaded his bedroom.) I knew that the silver bullet was loaded. This was it.

“Please don't,” tumbled hoarsely from my mouth.

“I'm not going to be a monster. Think of it like putting down a rabid dog,” he said quietly.

“No, John! Nobody else will get put down. _Please_ ,” I reiterated. Shameful slip of tongue, that 'else', but his words had sent my mind reeling back to Redbeard. I refused to feel that wretched helplessness again. Once was more than enough. I couldn't lose John too.

“What else can I do, Sherlock?” he asked, hopelessness colouring his voice.

“Let me try one last thing.”

“What?” he queried, eyes shining with anticipation for me to be brilliant and make the problem disappear. I so wished that I could have.

“Trust me one last time, John,” I entreated. I was worried that controlling him would not be deemed good enough, so I was purposefully vague. “If it comforts you, I'll even take the gun. If what I have in mind doesn't work, I'll kill you myself before I let you murder anyone. I swear,” I relented. I would have, really. I would have followed him right after, but that didn't matter. He must have felt the honesty of my resolve, because he offered the gun to me without a word.

“Come back down,” I requested softly. He complied and I made him tea, simply to let him think that I wanted to try some other potion, or maybe make a last-second attempt with wolfsbane (as if).

When the moon was about to rise, (how acutely we both were aware of it) he grit out, “It didn't work. _Shoot,_ Sherlock!”

I was perfectly still. Betraying him in a way, yes, but I needed to try this.

“Shoot, goddammit!”

I simply stood between him and the flat's door.

He couldn't yell more at me, because he started changing. Going by his screams, soon turned into yowls, it must have been torturous., but it was mercifully short-lived. Soon I had a majestic gold and silver furred wolf in front of me. It stalked towards me. Time to make my attempt.

German lore says that to survive meeting a wolf you have to call his name three times and he'll turn back into a man. Danish legends suggest to scold the wolf if you meet one. Just that.

“John,” I called, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.

“John.”

“John.”

“What?” he grumbled, annoyed – at least if I sussed out the correct emotion. I had trouble enough with them when it was humans I was reading.

“Where do you think you're going?” I asked boldly.

“Out,” he answered simply, and oh, how much it resembled when he couldn't stand me anymore. If I had closed my eyes I could have believed he was only upset about the eyeballs in the microwave. Again.

“I can't let you. Not tonight,” I stated firmly.

“ _Let me_?” he growled.

“John,” I invoked again, hoping to appease him. _I believed in no God, so when exactly had his name become my prayer?_ “Why do you want to leave?”

“To hunt.”

“There's nothing to hunt in London,” I replied flatly.

“Oh, I'm sure I could find something,” he said, sniffing loudly. This wasn't my flatmate. Not the kind John I was used to.

“There's nothing to hunt,” I reiterated forcefully. Did that count as scolding? Because I had a feeling saying _you bad dog_ wouldn't work.

“Repeating yourself, Sherlock?” And then, the wolf actually guffawed.

“If you're too slow to understand,” I countered, managing to sound nonchalant. Then a reckless idea took over my brain, and I added, “You know, there's something I could agree to have you hunt.”

“What?” the creature queried, excited, looking like he'd wag his tail if he had had one.

“Me. Give me ten minutes of head start and then come find me. But no getting distracted along the way, or I'll win too easily.” The challenge should have kept him focused. And if he took the term hunt too literally and actually attacked me, I had always the gun.

“Run!” he barked, with a crooked grin.

I did, leaving the door ajar for him to follow me. It was a heady feeling, that chase. Soon he caught up with me, but it was obvious that he meant no harm. He snapped his jaws close to my heels, but I was under no delusion that he couldn't have bitten me if he wanted. It felt like a cross between playing with Redbeard and leading John in pursuit of some criminal's trail, and I kept from giggling with sheer giddiness only because it would waste breath. I needed it to run.

I did my best to keep our path as out of sight as I could. It would not do to scare people, and to someone oblivious, John could still be a fearsome vision. I found him wonderful, even changed, but I knew him. I tried to keep us out of Mycroft's ever watchful eyes too, but there were simply too many cameras in London. I realized soon that was impossible. I would have to explain. Probably to fight for the right to be by John's side. Overbearing jerk. We ran for hours, and I took advantage of the occasion to test John's agility in this form (which was remarkable). Finally, I led him back home.

“Should have hunted seriously,” John said the moment we were back in the flat. “So hungry.”

I had expected that, and prepared accordingly. So before he could regret anymore I took the meat I had bought earlier (without his knowing, as it would have given away my intention to manage his transformation) out of the bridge. A few sausages would make a decent entrée while I cooked the rest. I was adamant on cooking, trying to maintain as much human customs as I could even with John in such a shape.

He was pleasantly surprised (I don't think he considered me able of such thoughtfulness...or cooking at all). Soon, though, he shocked me in turn.

He was emptying his second plate, when he off-handedly remarked, “You're really a good mate.”

I almost burned myself. I was still cooking, because surely transforming and running around he had consumed a good amount of energy. Then I told myself that I had been silly. Just because he looked like this he wouldn't use words as if they concerned a real wolf. “Mate as in fellow?” I asked anyway.

He huffed. “Mate as in life partner. In every sense.” And then volunteered, “Wolves mate for life.”

“John...are you asking?” I queried, more shakily than I would have liked. How much of my friend was awake inside this creature? Could I take his word to mean what my doctor really wanted?

“I'm stating,” John countered. That had me flopping into the nearest chair. “Everyone knows,” he added, leaning his head on my knees and effectively trapping me.

“And you always deny it,” I replied softly. It positively irked John. Why the change of heart?

“Not me. The idiot,” he barked.

So I had my answer. John and the wolf had different personalities, with opposite wishes...and didn't even like each other. I was caught on the middle, and for my misfortune, I quite liked both of them. In truth, I liked John far too much. It would indubitably break me, sooner rather than later, but I could do nothing about it.

The smell of something burning broke that supremely awkward moment. “Sorry,” I said, moving to throw the ruined dish away.

“Not that hungry anymore,” the wolf assured. Then he startled me again, nuzzling my hand and saying, “I don't suppose you'd sleep with me.”

“I can't,” I said simply. Not just because of the technicalities. (He may be tailless, but how much wolf anatomy did John retail? I was sure humans were not made to accommodate knots. It was enough to make anyone terrified of intercourse.) Because _John_ didn't want to sleep with me, he'd always been more than explicit about that, and I couldn't do that to him.

“Cuddling?” he queried hopefully, and I gave into him. We settled on the sofa, and I hugged him. It was so very much like being with Redbeard once again. How bad I had missed this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. John's pov.

Waking up was very confusing. Contrarily to my usual, I was groggy, disoriented, and with the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Having my mind clear I realized I was on the sofa, naked, and with a (thankfully dressed) consulting detective draped over me.

I would have panicked, normally, but Sherlock was asleep – God knew that happened rarely enough –, I wasn't bloody, it didn't look like we'd slept together beyond the most literal of meanings … anything needed could wait a few moments. Actually, Sherlock's embrace was more comfortable than it had any right to be. I settled back into it. It wouldn't do to wake Sherlock up.

I couldn't stay still indefinitely, though. In the end, nature called and I had to extract myself from him (and I  _wasn't_ disappointed, no, I wasn't). Sherlock offered an indistinct protest, and I fervently hoped that he would not wake up fully. The more sleep he got the better. Instead, when I went back – with a dressing gown on, and feeling a bit more normal – I found him alert. 

I wordlessly went past him, and came back five minutes later with tea for the both of us, as I was strangely without any appetite, and very pointedly trying to ignore what I might have  _eaten_ late last night. Otherwise I'd surely be sick. Sherlock thanked me softly. 

I took a sip, sitting on my chair, but then my worries slipped out. “I'm alive. Not that I'm complaining – well, not exactly...” I was complaining, in truth. But it seemed rude to do so. And perhaps Sherlock had a valid excuse. Oh God, what if I'd attacked him, bitten him, and then he'd changed too? Wait, no, he was dressed. But was this a true clue?

“There was no reason to eliminate you, John,” my friend replied calmly.

“No reason?” I echoed heatedly. I was a monster. There was every fucking reason to put me down. Sherlock had even promised, and then he'd failed me. Yes, it seemed stupid to seethe against being alive, but I didn't want to be a bloodthirsty _thing._

“You harmed no one, John. It hardly seemed fair to kill you over fur. Not even if you were largely shedding,” Sherlock quipped.

I chuckled. What else was I supposed to do? “So are you saying that I'm a harmless little doggy?” I queried. It couldn't be that simple, could it? I'd seen the other werewolf. And our sources were coherent in describing werewolves as bloodthirsty, more often than not cannibalistic monsters. So why wouldn't _I_ be?

“I wouldn't call you little, John. Your size was more than respectable. As for harmless...You could have hurt people, but you chose not to. Isn't that good enough?”

“I chose. All by myself?” I wondered. Was I a lazy werewolf? A peaceful one? Did such a thing even exist?

“I might have persuaded you. Offered an acceptable alternative. But you were surprisingly amenable to it. Really, I wouldn't mind spending a few nights each month ensuring that you don't do anything that you might regret later,” Sherlock said with a half-smile.

I didn't know how to react to such a statement. Acceptable alternative? What kind of alternative would that be? Sherlock said that I had not harmed anyone, but what did I do? My memory of the time spent as wolf was muddled. That didn't terribly matter – I trusted Sherlock – but was still something to ponder. But I couldn't accept his offer. I couldn't burden him so. “Just a few nights, is it? You don't mind, you say. Of course you don't. You have no case going presently.” Fine, it wasn't the kindest objection, but I needed him to realize that this couldn't possibly be a long-term arrangement. Not that I had another viable option (but suicide, that is) but self-delusion wouldn't do.

“I promise, John. I'm not about to leave you on your own on such a night. Not even if Moriarty came back to play,” Sherlock assured me earnestly.

I hated it. I hated that the psychotic bastard was Sherlock's epitome of a tempting case. I let out a feral growl, for once conscious of what was happening. Perhaps because tonight would be a full moon too and the wolf was close to the surface. Or it might be because I agreed perfectly with with my inner monster. If Moriarty came back, I would happily do away with my humanity for a while and just rip him apart. I somehow doubted that his snipers were equipped with silver bullets.

“Relax, John. He's not here, and with a bit of luck, we won't see him ever again,” Sherlock pleaded, his voice placating, almost hypnotic.

I calmed down, but only a fraction, more because of his tone than for his lies. I called him out on them, grumbling, “Oh no. he'll be back for you. Of course he will. And you'll love it again .” I had never complained about it before, but it didn't mean that I loathed it any less. (Moriarty treated mass murder like flirting, and Sherlock looked entirely too receptive to it. And I wasn't jealous, just – Moriarty?!) It didn't mean that the prospect of the madman's return didn't scare me.

“I don't think I would enjoy it, John,” Sherlock said, “it stopped being fun when things got personal. I don't like being toyed with; at all.”

Strangely, that did the trick and left me perfectly placid. Sherlock  _didn't_ miss Moriarty, and apparently it was all I asked. Reasonable, in a way, since this month he'd been so focused on me, and I was afraid that he regretted that choice. In the past four weeks, he had rarely worked – only simple cases, that he would have spurned before,  _too easy_ – but he'd taken them for a short reprieve from our continuous worrying and studying. Nothing that would have commandeered his full dedication, though. That was reserved to my...situation. 

“But the ridiculous notion that I would leave you alone when you needed me, you have no other objection to let me take care of you during your transformation?” Sherlock queried,looking at me with the put-upon air of when he had to deal with people's idiocy, but with a hint of something anxious underneath.

“It's not ridiculous,” I protested. “It might not be a problem tonight or tomorrow, but I can't ask you to manage my full moons on a regular basis. It'd be too big of a burden, Sherlock. I can't possibly...”

I never got to end that sentence, because he cut in, “But John. I  _want_ to.” His eagerness surprised me. There was almost urgency in his voice. 

“When you put it like this...You can always go back on this later, if your opinion changes, I suppose. It's more of a curiosity than another objection, but could you tell me what we did tonight?”

For a second, he looked almost sheepish. “Playing tag would be an adequate description. But you enjoyed it!”

“I'm sure I did,” I reassured. I was really a big dog, uh? That was...relieving, actually. And why did Sherlock feel the need to justify himself for playing? He never did. There was no reason to do so. Especially if that was enough to stop me from hurting him or anyone else. Finally, I faced the worry that had eaten me up since I had woken up, even if Sherlock's assurances had quelled it somehow. “Did I eat something?”

“Sausages and pork fillet, John. After all that running, it didn't seem right to starve you. I didn't think you'd be contrary,” Sherlock explained, looking vaguely puzzled. He'd sensed my unease, and apparently didn't understand it.

It was such a relief. Not only I hadn't hurt anyone. There would be no missing pets anywhere (as I'd feared), and nothing awful was in my stomach. “Uhm...no, I'm not adverse. I didn't know we had these in the fridge,” I replied.

“If you'd rather have a different menu tonight, buy whatever you want, though I'd advise you to keep it meat-based,” my friend suggested. Sidestepping the matter of how that had appeared in our kitchen entirely. (Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen me in my furry shape, had she?) But I let it slide. It didn't really matter.

After a few quiet moments, Sherlock blurted out, “Are we agreed then? Can I make sure your danger nights are fine like you do for mine? No need for silver bullets, poisons or other absurd projects of the same ilk?”

“Yes, we are. Of course we are. It's not like I _want_ to be suicidal, Sherlock. And if I had to trust anyone with this, it's obvious it would be you. It would be you even if you hadn't been involved since the start. I just didn't expect things to be so...easy. But you'd figure that out, wouldn't you?”

Really, where would I be without Sherlock? (I knew, he probably knew too, and seriously it didn't bear thinking about. ) I smiled, overwhelmed by sheer affection. Why was almost everyone else who met him so blind to what a fantastic human being Sherlock was? And exactly what had I ever done to deserve having him in my life? Sure, I'd always tried to be good, but I must have accumulated quite the sterling karma to meet him. (No, I'd not momentarily forgotten how difficult he can sometimes be; I still stand by my word.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine, but I still play. Sherlock's pov. Remember that English is my second language so if I blundered grammatically while in Sherlock's pov...Sorry, readers. Sorry Sherlock. I try my best.

The affection in John's voice when he said, “You'd figure that out,” was strong and entirely unwarranted. After all, I hadn't figured out what he wanted me to – how to heal him. Only what I needed myself, how to keep John in my life. I wasn't about to state that, though, or try to make him see the facts for what they were. I simply basked in it unashamedly.

Or I would have liked to, but the truth required a tribute, so I answered him, “Your consistently good character is to be credited for how easy it is to manage such times, John. My help would be useless otherwise.” The praise surprised him, it was clear. Why would it? It was well deserved, and he should have realized it. Was it really so out of character for me to acknowledge it? Didn't he know how deeply grateful I was for his nature...for his mere existence?

Before we could be swamped in awkwardness, we were disturbed. _Mycroft._ I expected him, of course. Still, he could announce his coming sometimes. Knocking wouldn't be a bad idea. Sadly, Mrs. Hudson liked him for some unexplainable reason, and so he had free access to the house. She was still under the delusion that he cared for me, probably. I steeled myself for the upcoming confrontation.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” asked John, apparently annoyed too. It must have been the wolf who didn't appreciate the intrusion on his territory. He could be smart like that. Hopefully my brother wouldn't set his instincts off. Amusing as that would be, the last thing I needed was Mycroft rethinking his assessment of John. I wanted to believe that one instance wouldn't be enough for that, but better not to take risks.

“I was curious about yesterday's activities. Despite my surveillance, I have no idea where that dog came from,” my brother said.

“Perhaps your surveillance isn't that perfect,” I countered.

“So it seems,” he agreed, frowning. That wasn't the right answer, and he knew, but a creature so big didn't just materialize out of thin air. It puzzled him, and he hated it. I couldn't explain, could I?

Half to retaliate against my secrecy, half to be simply cruel, he wondered loudly, “Do you really think it was wise for you to play around with that...creature?”

“What's the problem?” John asked.

“Sherlock likes dogs. It wouldn't do for him to get attached to someone else's pet. I'm sure you agree,” Mycroft replied with a smug smirk.

“Unless he's allergic – and he isn't – I can't see the problem,” my friend countered instead. Mycroft wasn't used to people disagreeing with him – other than I, that is – but thankfully he didn't expound on why I shouldn't be allowed to bond with a dog. (There was no reason at all beyond Mycroft's convenience. He didn't want me to sulk – as he'd put it – when I lost it again, and barring murderous criminals, at this point in time my life expectancy surpassed that of any dog. Maybe he'll get me a puppy when I'll be eighty, if I ever lived that long. With John to care for me, it was starting to look possible.)

“And anyway, you're too late, Mycroft. I've already agreed to take care of him for a few days,” I announced curtly.

“You took up dog-sitting, did you now?” my brother queried, disbelieving.

“Yes. For a friend.” I was piling errors one upon another. Dog-sitting _for days_ instead of nights would make him wonder where the dog was presently, and I had no answer to that. And saying _friend_...why didn't I say for a case? _Idiot._

“Friend,” Mycroft echoed with a snort.

“ _Yes_ ,” John cut in smoothly but with his don't-question-me captain voice. It was lovely that he was backing me up, but it was really unneeded. Mycroft turned to look at him. John taking my side could be in character, but captain John Watson was usually kept under the surface, and arguing with my brother didn't warrant his appearance. Perhaps the wolf pushed the alpha attitude out. (Not that I complained about it – captain Watson was a sight, as always.)

“Is something the matter, doctor Watson?” Mycroft queried. Of course something was the matter. And of course my brother couldn't pinpoint it. He was sane.

John laughed. “You wouldn't believe me.”

“Try me,” Mycroft bit back, annoyed.

“That thing tonight wasn't a dog. I thought you were more observant,” John challenged. Not that I didn't love the jab, but was it really a good policy to bring him in our confidence?

Before I could protest, my friend revealed, “It was a wolf, Mycroft. A were one. It was _me_. So yes, favour to a friend.”

“Again, Sherlock? You should really take better care of him if you don't want him to leave sooner rather than later,” my brother remarked cuttingly. That was low. Very low. Even thinking that I had drugged him again – reasonable deduction, if untrue – hinting that John would leave was more than I could stand. Because it had been all too plausible (now, with John's problem, perhaps not as much), and I loathed the prospect with all my soul.

Before I could adequately retaliate, though, John growled, “I don't care if you two bicker, but don't drag me into that. There'll be no sooner or later or _ever_.” I reflexively smiled at the comforting words.

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft blurted out, used enough to my own volatile behaviour while on drugs to know it was better to behave. He gave me a very dirty look for playing with my flatmate.

I was entirely unfazed by it. I had too much practice for his disapproval to affect me still. I wordlessly telegraphed, “Believe what you wish.”

He wouldn't have John removed for safety reasons or sent somewhere to be studied in order to replicate and use his change if he believed my friend was just the unfortunate victim of my experimentation.

I should have transmitted, “I do what I please,” instead, because he telegraphed back, “Don't back his delusions up, Sherlock. It's childish, you know.”

I would have liked so much for this to be a joke at my brother's expense. I always tried to school my features around Mycroft, to let him see what I wanted him to see. I did that around anyone, really, unless I enjoyed riling them up with my honest but inappropriate reactions. But he was better than me at deductions and I must have given away some of my wistfulness, because his eyes rolled, expressing clearly, “Not you too. I thought I had ensured that nobody would dare to sell you anything.” That last sentence was absurd, of course, but it was better to let Mycroft have his own delusions.

He decided to sidestep the paranormal issue altogether. “So you're going to persist playing with this canine, whatever the species – I'm not going to argue about it – are you, Sherlock?” Disapproval dripped thick from his words.

“He's going to be a reoccurring fixture in my life, Mycroft. A monthly engagement. Get used to it,” I stated, challenging him.

“Monthly,” he echoed, with a raised eyebrow.

“Well duh. I thought Sherlock was the only one who was selectively ignorant, Mycroft. Didn't I say werewolf?” John interjected.

Mycroft went rigid with anger. He didn't appreciate being mocked. Nobody did, I think. “You don't want me to believe it, doctor,” he said, smooth and dangerous, “Beasts get caged.”

John growled, deep and feral, at the same time I hissed, “Don't you _dare_ , Mycroft!”

My brother blinked, wondering if he'd gone too far provoking an unstable man. Or two, as it were.

“I have it all under control,” I assured hastily.

“Do you, Sherlock?” Mycroft queried sternly.

“Yes, I do!” I cried out.

John was already calmer and looking sheepish at his outburst. “Honestly, Mycroft, I don't care if you believe me or not. I suppose you'll have evidence backing my claim sooner or later. I'm thankful that you've foregone the video surveillance inside the flat or you'd have it already. But what I need to understand is that you can't cage me without accepting the consequences. I'm more volatile now, as much as I loathe it. I might attack someone. And if I don't kill them I'll turn them and you'll have were-minions to manage. Isn't it too much of a hassle? Just let me be with Sherlock. He knows how to control me.”

“And what if you attack him, doctor?” my brother queried conversationally. Humouring him or starting to consider the possibility of what we both were stating and pondering how to provide accordingly? I wasn't sure.

That shut John up, and I knew he was rethinking our pact, seriously considering to actually go along with Mycroft's ridiculous threat and get himself trapped. The wolf wouldn't like it, and I couldn't tolerate the prospect. It would mean failing both John and the wolf. So naturally I had to step in. “He _won't,_ Mycroft,” I said forcefully. I'm a pack mate. Obviously.” Well, that was almost the truth. “He won't attack a pack mate. And I'm not helpless, and do not need you or anyone else sweeping in to defend me. Now shoo. Britain won't rule itself.” It persuaded him, because my brother finally left.

“A pack mate?” John commented, amused.

“Problem?” I challenged.

“As long as I don't turn you, not one. Luckiest wolf in Britain.”

I grinned. John appreciating my company would never cease to amaze and elate me at the same time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not mine. Back to John's point of view.

   
The second Mycroft left I could feel myself growing more relaxed. I usually liked him well enough – we cooperated all the time in keeping Sherlock safe and as well provided for as it could be done. But I had goaded him, and even without the embarrassing growling incident, I'd been downright rude. In a normal situation, I should have apologized. But Sherlock's relationship with his brother was strained enough that he was likely to be amused by my behaviour rather than disapprove it, and I told myself that with  all the subservience he normally got a change, for a bit, could only do him good. 

I hadn't expected Sherlock announcing his status as my pack mate, but I really liked the idea. For all that I absolutely didn't want to change him – you simply didn't mess with the level of perfection his brain had attained without ruining it – I let myself imagine him as a wolf. He'd be majestic, naturally, jet black, and hunting together would be not so different from what we already did and just as fun. 

“Mrs. Hudson wouldn't last long as a wild canine though. Not with her hip. A pity, don't you agree?” Sherlock said. 

“Of course,” I replied. I stopped being weirded out when Sherlock guessed – sorry, deduced – my thoughts and interjected. The first few times it had happened it had seriously spooked me. It brought the 'you can't keep secrets from your flatmate' to a whole new level. Not just actions inevitably left clues that he read – sometimes, not even the sanctity of my mind was sheltered from his all-knowing gaze. 

“If Mycroft didn't know how dangerous I could be – if he considered me a dog – what the hell did he want today? Why is it so unwise that you keep a dog according to him?” I queried, curious, leaving behind idle daydreams before he could scoff at them. Mycroft liked to be nosy, but his insistence today was so unjustified it was ridiculous. 

“I had a dog as a child. I absolutely loved it. Then it was sent to a farm where he'd be happier – so they told me. I kept pestering everyone to go visit him – I didn't want to admit he could be happier without me, to begin with. Once, when I tried yet again to recruit Mycroft to my side, thinking my parents would agree if he asked, my brother explained that the dog had to be put down. I didn't take it well,” my friend confessed. He looked almost sheepish admitting it, if because he'd believed his parents' lie or because he'd gotten emotional over a dog I wasn't sure. But I hoped dearly that Mycroft had been punished for revealing that – without much tact, I imagined.

"It would have been worrying if you had," I remarked. For all that Sherlock pretended to be a sociopath, I suspected – was pretty certain, and this proved it further – that his unfeeling condition was nothing but a front. Thank God he hadn't perfected his mask still as a child. That would be heart-breaking. "Did you sulk until they got you a new puppy?" I joked lightly.

Sherlock looked at me honestly scandalized – that's the right word. "Is that what normal people do?" he queried.

"Well...yes."

"It must have been Mycroft who talked my parents out of it, then. It would only be a temporary fix, after all, since the next dog would die too, and we'd be back there...who knows, maybe worse. But sometimes I'm inclined to agree with his assessment. And really, trying to replace him with anyone else looks so...shallow," my friend replied, his disdain at us ordinary people and our behaviour impossible to miss. 

"You don't exactly replace him. It's not like your goldfish dies when you're out and your parents get you a new one hoping you won't notice the difference – though with you and Mycroft that wouldn't work, I bet. You'll always be fond of him, but you get a different one not to be lonely," I tried to explain. 

"Speaking from direct experience, John?"  he asked with a half smile.

"I wish. Harry and her cats came first, so..." I shrugged off the rest of the sentence. The principle was the same though. Surely Sherlock would realize that.

"Cats and dogs can live together in perfect harmony, despite the common misconception," my friend pointed out. 

"I'm sure, but not Harry and dogs. She hates them," I said. "She's an idiot, I know," I added, in answer to a very pointed look. "I'm lucky that you are not a cat person," I joked. What would I have done without his support?

"It doesn't matter what you could have become, John. I wouldn't be put off by mere appearance. I thought that you knew me better than that," Sherlock objected, sounding almost offended.

"Right. Transport, of course. You don't mind yours, much less other people's," I appeased. "But you've got to admit, four legged, furry transport that you can get off from is somewhat unusual. You'd be in your rights if you had reacted badly."

  
"Considering how many sources we found, not that unusual. Who knows, maybe other people we know are managing their moons and we didn't notice it because we deemed such a condition impossible." Sherlock blushed lightly. The chance of having misjudged entirely someone was a prospect he really didn't like.

  
"Suggestions?" I quipped.

  
"Henry Knight. Maybe the hound wasn't an hallucination. Maybe it turned him," Sherlock hypothesized.

  
I laughed. It would be so delightfully ironic if he was a wolf, considering his persistent fear of dogs. "Maybe. And maybe the locals saw him around. Do you want to go back sometimes and investigate the time frame of the sightings?"

  
"Not really," he drawled. "I have my hands full with my own werewolf. No need to go searching for another. I'm satisfied as it is."

  
I smiled. "If possible I'd like to ask you for a tiny favour, on top of all the help you already give me. Would you record me? I'm curious to see what i look like. It feels weird not knowing anything about my transformation. At least I'll be able to rebuild more easily the memories I don't have if I know how to imagine myself."

  
Sherlock nodded. "Though you'll find your appearance to be exactly what you might expect. If I was aware of werecreatures' existence and met you around instead of being private to your transformation I'd suspect your true identity."

  
"I'm sure," I agreed.

  
"Would you mind if I played?" he asked then, and I was only too eager to give my consent. I had no idea what he needed to think about now (I hoped I wasn't the problem, though I suspected as much), but it was a blessed occasion when he did play his violin instead of torturing it. It made me wish to be more educated about classical music, so that I could name the pieces he executed. It was a suggestive, wistful tune, and I simply enjoyed the show until my stomach interrupted us with a grumble, making me blush.

  
"What do you fancy today?" I asked, determined to make him eat lunch. Now that I thought about it, I had a late dinner, but he'd probably not joined me. I was so stupid not making him breakfast!

  
"Italian?" he replied hesitantly, as if he expected an objection. I didn't protest, of course. Their food is great.

  
"Do you want to go out or do we ask Angelo to deliver?" That restaurant usually didn't, but that man   for Sherlock would do pretty much anything.

  
"Let's go out," my friend replied. I wasn't sure how safe it would be today, but if Sherlock thought it was something we could attempt I was willing to go along. In ten minutes we were ready and on our way.

  
When Angelo suggested something guaranteed for his aphrodisiac effects (apparently, it being lunch had no bearing on his fantasies about how we spent the time) I was for a moment terrified that the wolf would snap. It was perfectly quiet, luckily, so instead I just rolled my eyes and grumbled,"We're not lovers." Even while I talked, I knew that Angelo's selective hearing would miss my words. Just like every other time.

  
As it was his wont, Sherlock let all insinuations slide without uttering a word. He really didn't care what others thought of him, uh? In secret, I admired that ability of his, but then it meant that I was left to worry about reputation for both of us, too. A bit of collaboration on his part would have allowed our lives to run that much smoothly – and I wasn't just talking about disabusing others of misconceptions. 

Then again, if I didn't need to fret over Sherlock's behaviour, what it implied – mistakenly, he was amazingly innocent at times – or the reactions it sometimes caused, what would I worry about? It wasn't just following him on cases that kept me never bored, as I'd told Mycroft once. It was never quite knowing what mess I'd have to deal with next that kept me constantly, delightfully on my toes. Even if I made a point of complaining about each one, because Sherlock needed someone to tell him when he'd done something not good, otherwise he'd soon become totally unmanageable. Each time he caused problems many people just assumed he was not good, despite having abundant evidence to the contrary, and such willful blindness irked me to no end. 

The lunch was a quiet affair. I'm grateful for our ability to simply enjoy eavh other's company, without the need for words. Since the start, there was never any awkwardness setting in between us during the occasional spell of silence. 

It was odd; sometimes Sherlock was a toddler that needed to be entertained. (The fact that his entertainement usually required body parts was enough to spook silly people – but not me.) Other times, we required nothing more than to be aware of the reciprocal existence to be perfectly content. 

I was very relieved that today – when I was keyed up because of the moon, and slightly scared deep inside of me of what was to come, despite Sherlock's reassurances that he'd take care of me, and how easy that was – happened to be such a quiet day. Was it just luck? (I was owed a quota of luck, surely.) Or was Sherlock being considerate? He had the ability to do so, contrarily to what even I had thought at first. That I happened to be the almost sole recipient of his thoughtfulness (with the occasional exception of Mrs. Hudson) was at the same time deeply flattering and intensely touching. And, of course, infinitely precious.      
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I couldn't resist the jab at Henry Knight given that Russell Tovey, the actor plays his role, played the role of a werewolf in the series Being Human. I'm laughing every time I remember it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine.
> 
> A.N. Sherlock's point of view this time. Sorry about the delay, but I got swept up in other challenges. Thank you to Sendai for putting the idea for one line in my brain.

Sometimes I think that Mycroft was right when he deemed me an idiot all these years ago. After all, I failed to take into account the new data that I'd been offered and tailor my behaviour accordingly. We'd spent a quiet afternoon, John surfing the web while I slipped into my mind palace to try and make sense of the things that were happening, since not even the violin had helped me enough. I had recently resurfaced, when John sauntered towards me. There was no other word for it.

“Human body now. Let's mate,” the wolf growled in a low, seductive pitch.

I swallowed around the lump suddenly lodged in my throat. “We can't,” I replied.

“You want to. You've been courting me all day,” he pointed out.

“I acted normally,” I remarked.

“And what does this say about you?” He laughed. “Serenade and a date, Sherlock. Let's bring the day to its natural conclusion, before my fur disgusts you.”

Was this what I'd been doing? What I'd done for more than a year now? Certainly the wolf seemed to think so. But he was wrong, wasn't he? I didn't court my flatmate. After all, I was aware that it would be an useless endeavour.

“The fur isn't the problem,” I countered. “Well, not the only one,” I amended, when he gave me a clearly disbelieving look. “We simply can't.”

“Why?” the wolf's brain inside John whined.

“There's that little matter called consent,” I explained, my voice harsh.

“I want to, you want to, what more consent do we need? Why are you playing so hard to get?” he huffed, annoyed.

Could it really be so stupid? Of course I wanted to. I wanted nothing more than tto give into its requests and pretend John loved me to. But... “I'm not raping my only friend,” I bit back in a clipped voice.

The wolf smirked with an arrogance that I had never seen in my friend's face, and teased, “And who said that you'd have the active role in this, uh?”

I suppressed a shiver. I couldn't show how much I enjoyed even this version of him. Really, what was wrong with me? “Irrelevant,” I pointed out. “You're still not the only one or even the main owner of this body. It still qualifies as rape without John's consent.”

The beast's control of their shared body was spotty at best. I wouldn't be responsible for the rightfully shocked and betrayed look that would undoubtedly paint itself on my friend's face if he regained conscience just after or – God forbid – _during_ intercourse.

“ _John?_ ” the wolf echoed. “And who else am I then?” He was getting angry.

“I'm not sure,” I replied truthfully. I had studied the matter, but a month was not enough to discover all the secrets of the species.

“Hypothalamus. Pleased to meet you,” he snarled. “His, of course.”

Could I believe it? It went partially against the conclusion that I had reached the day before. Was it true that the beast wasn't some sort of strange virus but just my friend's deeper instincts, unveiled? Could it be that he wanted me, on some level? It didn't matter, I decided. If he did, his behaviour showed that he hated wanting me. I knew better than give into the wolf.

“The moon is almost here,” he remarked, suddenly holding my wrists. Time was short, and he'd gotten tired of trying to persuade me. “Is this some sort of fantasy, Sherlock? Overtaken by the big bad wolf? No responsibility of yours?” he whispered.

I should have fought him, but I was frankly terrified. “I won't _ever_ forgive you if you do,” I said instead. “If you say that I'm your mate, respect me!”

He huffed in annoyance, but released me.

I sighed in relief. I hadn't been sure that it would have worked.

“You really don't want it. Not like that,” he acknowledged frowning, surprise in his voice. “I'm starting to think that I should change you, you know? I'm sure that you'd be amenable then.”

“And who'd care for us? Mycroft?” I countered, hoping that he'd see reason.

He grimaced, as I anticipated. Unexpectedly, he ground out, “Care for? We're not puppies. And I. Am. No. Pet.”

“Of course you aren't. Otherwise with your behaviour you'd already be acquainted with the newspaper,” I joked. It might have been a risky move, but I was tired of being afraid of John. If it was really still him – or part of him at least – I refused to.

“Not funny,” he growled

“I wasn't trying to be,” I lied. Let him think that I was ready to chastise him in a fitting way.

“You're too...” I never knew what I was, because he yowled then, overtaken by his transformation. The moon had snuck up on us both while we were bantering, and in comparison with the anxious wait of the day before, I definitely liked this better.

After all, John's transformation was supposed to become a fixture of our normal life. Fine, so maybe calling it normal wasn't the best choice for an adjective. But not being anymore the only source of everything questionable – at least by ordinary people standards – happening in 221B was almost comforting.

When John fully changed, he grinned at me and said, “You better run tonight. I'm still not entirely convinced that you wouldn't be better if I changed you.”

I was certainly ready to play, and glad that he'd found the previous day pleasing enough to bear repetition. Of course, I should have been scared by the half-threat to render me like him (there were things deep in my brain that really shouldn't be allowed out – _ever_ ), but I decided to bet that he wouldn't. After all, until now John had been the only one who accepted me exactly for what I was. I hoped this wouldn't change – at least not over a matter of so little importance.

Naturally, that I trusted him not to change me didn't mean that I didn't run until I was completely breathless, leading him on again on a merry chase. It just meant that I didn't bring along that awfully dangerous gun this time. I needed no protection from him, after all. My belief thankfully proved correct.

Like the day before, he snapped playfully at my heels more than once, but refrained from actually hurting me. Once again, laughter tried to bubble out of me. I loved doing this, and I loved that our previous discussion had been pushed aside in favour of having the most uncomplicated possible kind of fun. Why couldn't life be always this easy? Then again, John's presence in my life was more than worth all the worries the last month had brought – and all the ones that would undoubtedly come in the future.

After a few hours of tag, we went back home, happily walking side by side. Again, I fixed supper for John. This time, he didn't stun me – in truth, he said very little beside thank you – so I didn't burn anything. After the meal, he jumped on the sofa, and then looked pointedly at me. I hated the feeling of uncertainty that seized me. Then, I honestly admitted, “I don't want you to feel like I'm leading you on.”

“Sherlock,” he huffed, “believe me when I say that I accepted that _you_ will certainly not be the one to lead our relationship anywhere. I'm not going to molest you. Or demand what you aren't ready to give. But this is perfectly innocent, and now I _require_ a cuddle.”

Well, wasn't this the point of tonight? To take care of John in any way he might need? I settled beside him, and soon I was hugging him, breathing against his fur. And I really shouldn't be the one drawing comfort from the act, but I was.

“That's better,” the wolf remarked contentedly.

I smiled. As long as I could make him happy, than yes, things were definitely better. Did he even realize the lengths to which I'd go for him, no matter his appearance? In all likelihood not entirely. And even if it was probably safer for me that he didn't, it saddened me. I squeezed him softly. Like Redbeard once, he didn't protest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. Back to John's point of view.

For the second time in a row, I woke up on the sofa and to Sherlock's loose embrace. Once again, I made no move to disturb our equilibrium. I wasn't just comfortable with the situation, I was pleased. Only because Sherlock was getting some much needed sleep, of course.   
And partially because my fears of the day before had been soothed. Things seemed to have gone the same way, so I didn't need to worry about what I could have done. For the nth time since that fateful day at Barts', I quietly thanked God for having allowed me to meet Sherlock Holmes.   
Soon enough he woke up, and I went to make tea for the both of us and toast for one. That surprised Sherlock, and I could see him wondering how he could have annoyed me, since I wasn't trying to feed him. He didn't comment on it, though. He didn't want to be scolded, most likely.  
It broke my heart a bit, to be honest, that he thought like that, so I hurried to explain. “I'm still full from yesterday's late dinner, Sherlock, but I'm assuming that you haven't shared it, so you're eating now. At least toast. Maybe with honey?” He liked that.   
He was relieved, I could tell, but still offered a token protest. “I'm not hungry, John.”   
“Since you didn't say that you had dinner with me, you're eating. At least a bite. I'm not taking no for an answer,” I countered.   
“Oh fine,” he huffed. But he wasn't half as annoyed as he liked to pretend to be. I suspected that he secretly liked being fussed over. Just as well, because I liked taking care of him.  
Afterwards, he told me, “I have taken photos yesterday, like you wanted,” and he showed me. They made me smile. Sherlock was right, I looked like I should expect to be, if with a longer fur than I would have surmised. And even as a canine, nobody who saw me could misunderstand me for anything but a happy creature.   
I was about to comment that yes, I was big, but I looked pretty harmless, when I saw a photo that showed entirely too many teeth. Long, pointy, vicious things. “What was I doing?” I gasped, horrified.  
“Just playing,” Sherlock assured me. “Mock attacking. Do you think that I'd be snapping photos otherwise?”   
Well, when he put it like that, my fears seemed silly indeed.   
“I've never been in any sort of serious danger from you, John, I swear. You wouldn't do such a thing to me.” The strength of his conviction shone through, and I was amazed and humbled that he trusted me that much. Hell, I didn't trust myself. How could he?   
I didn't ask, but he answered anyway. “I don't know why you would never hurt me, John- god knows that's not the normal response to my behaviour. But I know that you wouldn't, and I won't insult you by ever believing otherwise.”  
Which wasn't maybe all that reassuring – he didn't seem to have arguments for his trust – but that only made it more touching. I silently swore never to betray such confiance, and I bloody well hoped that the wolf wouldn't dare too.   
Then, Sherlock uttered, “I know that it's not my place or business or anything, not normally, but there's a thing we must talk about.” he was clearly ill at ease, and it worried me in turn.   
“So tell me,” I prompted anyway.   
“You haven't dated at all this month,” he said flatly. He was right, it wasn't his business. If I'd been too scared of what might possibly happen, it surely didn't concern him.   
“So?” I countered, defensive.   
“Werewolves are supposed to be especially lustful,” my flatmate declared, his voice like a professor holding a conference.  
“Well, maybe I'm the exception,” I replied lightly.  
“I can assure you that you are not,” he said, very serious.   
“You can...oh fuck! Sherlock, I've not come onto you, have I?” Only his reassurances that I'd never hurt him comforted me a bit. He wouldn't have said as much if I'd attempted to rape him, God forbid. Still, it was more than a bit not good. If Sherlock's type was the Woman, I was as far from that as I could possibly get. I must have annoyed him a lot.   
“The wolf wasn't at all adverse to...deepening our friendship.” Sherlock revealed. He actually blushed at that.   
“Look, I'm sorry...” I stammered. I should have known that dealing with the beast couldn't be as easy as Sherlock had made it look yesterday.   
Then, Sherlock amazed me by uttering softly, “Don't be.”  
“What?” I croaked.   
“I've brought it up only because I thought that you needed to be aware of it. Maybe you should cater to its instincts by picking up some girl. I'm almost certain that you'd prefer that. But...”   
He paused, awkward, cleared his voice, and I waited anxiously. Not even trying to imagine where this conversation would go.   
“But if you can't trust any girl in your present condition, if you're afraid of what it could do,” – I was always transparent to him, wasn't I? – “I'd be...amenable to helping you out with that.”  
“You what?” I'm afraid I yelled, and he instinctively recoiled. I was messing up, wasn't I?   
“I know that you're not...but he doesn't care, and – with your permission, John, you understand, that's why I brought it up – I thought that I'd just...take care of you. Assuage the wolf. It doesn't have to mean anything, John. We'd still be friends,” he rambled.   
“With benefits,” I added sharply. He nodded. “You want to be friends with benefits because the wolf is horny,” I reiterated, not a little shocked.   
“Yes?” he replied tentatively.   
“Sherlock,” I stated, with utter seriousness, “you know that you don't have to, right?” When he told that he would take care of me, it made me almost sick. That was surely stretching the simple caring that he'd promised me way too far, wasn't it?   
“Of course I know, John, don't be dumb. But I really don't mind, so, if you'd just consent to that, things would be much easier. If you can.”  
“I don't mind? Things would be easier?” I echoed, flabbergasted. “That's no reason to have sex. The only acceptable reason to have sex is because you want to,” I declared hotly.  
For a moment there was silence. Then, Sherlock rushed out all in the same breath, “AndifIwantedto?”  
“Do you?” I queried.   
“Hypothetically speaking. If I wanted to. If you – the wolf – whatever...seduced me. And he wanted to. Would you have objections? Be utterly disgusted? Hate it? Or...maybe...you don't mind either?”  
“I'm not going to hate it. Or you,” – which I suspected was what he was truly afraid of – “I suppose you can. As long as it's not because you feel like you have to keep it content or something.”  
“Fine, John. And...thank you,” Sherlock murmured softly.   
I'll admit it: I never expected such a thing to happen. I wasn't gay. It didn't mean that I hadn't dabbled. Or that I hadn't – very occasionally – fantasized about Sherlock. But I'm sure that everyone who met him did, at some point. Anyone who wasn't blind, that is.   
But Sherlock had said very clearly from the start that he wasn't interested in me – before I offered at all, even. So what let me puzzled and, honestly, a bit miffed was ...if it happened, what the hell did the wolf have that I didn't to awaken my usually all too chaste friend's attraction? At least physically we were the same after all. Then again, it wasn't exactly normal. Maybe it was that which sparkled Sherlock's passion (he'd thanked me for giving consent, for God's sake!) towards my other nature. The rarity. Being special.  
It was unfair, though. I was too scared of what it could do to her to get a girlfriend, and anyone would try to have me committed if I tried being honest with her, whoever she happened to be. All the while, the wolf would be shagging Sherlock. Gorgeous, normally untouchable Sherlock. And I wouldn't even remember it. I held back a whine. Maybe the werewolf – or whatever it was – had killed me. Maybe this was supposed to be hell.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine.
> 
> A.N. I have to apologize for this chapter. I know it's not what any of you hoped for. But being a clinically depressed virgin woman and writing gay sex from Sherlock's point of view is all kinds of hard – beside the good one. Sorry. And sorry about formatting too but I have no idea how to fix it. Suggestions?

It wasn't long after my impulsive offer that I started...well, not exactly to regret it (never that) but to feel apprehension mounting. Even if I still desired it. It was unreasonable, and irksome, and if it irked  _me_ the Wolf might be livid.

But wolves were known to be wild lovers – wild  _beasts_ . And I was a virgin – well, unless I'd done something when high and then deleted it. I wanted to believe that John would never hurt me, but in the heat of the moment... And that wasn't all. I didn't even know what to do. What if I was a terrible lay? Would he retire my mate privileges? Could I stay as pack at least? 

Researching was useless. I didn't need the type of idiotic and baseless tips I would find on the web. And I had no one I could just ask. So I could only feel my stomach twist in ever tighter knots, until I tried to beg off lunch.

## “Have at least a bite, Sherlock. You'll need the energy later,” John said, and even if he could mean for our customary runs, I intercepted a look that was all wolf and internally trembled. He wasn't wrong, though, so I forced myself to nibble something no matter how I felt.

## After, I pretended to pass time reading, but I literally didn't see a word of my book. I was just waiting for him to make a move, and maybe he was doing the same, because it was only when we had about two hours and half to the change that he finally did.

## “Sorry to take you from your riveting reading about Narnia,” he said, coming to perch on the arm of my armchair, “but if you weren't talking academically before, I'd really like to have a chance at trying to seduce you.”

I let the book fall from my hands. Nothing else to do but face this. Maybe voicing my concerns would be best? “I was serious, but...I'm a virgin, so...”

“Don't worry, I'll be gentle,” he cut in, going immediately from playful to reassuring.

“Well, thanks. But I was going to say...forgive me if I do wrong?”

He laughed at that, and it was truly musical. I don't know how he could attain it.

“Don't worry, you can't do wrong. Well, unless you kneed me where it hurts.”

That startled a laugh out of me, too. Had someone ever?

“Better,” he declared, satisfied. “This will work a lot better if you're relaxed. I hope kissing will help.”

He did kiss me, then, gentle and coaxing at first, but soon losing himself to the act and becoming passionate, exploring and possessing every inch of my mouth. Not that I complained. I'm afraid I moaned into it, but my hard-won control was completely shattered. By one kiss. Pathetic, uh?

When he ended it and huskily ordered, “Bed,” I didn't find the order easy to comply with, weak-kneed as I found myself. Nor I found his prompting that necessary. I'd have agreed to having sex on the sofa by that point. Or on the floor.

But he was taking care of me, and kissed me like he loved me (he didn't, of course; the whole mate lark was surely him being misguided by sheer proximity), and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for John Watson, in any of his shapes. So bed it was (mine; closer).

And again I stilled, uncertain of what he'd want. John's clothes apparently disappeared from his person, so quick he was, then he turned to look at me. He seemed mildly surprised but not overly irritated from my uselessness.

While I was entirely entranced by his beloved body, trying to memorize every inch of it, he queried huskily, “Still want to?” with a sniff. (What was he smelling? Nothing bad I hoped.) At my bashful nod, he set out to very efficiently remove my own clothes too.

The kisses, licks and playful nips he peppered on newly naked flesh made me sigh with pleasure, and finally my hands dared to touch him. Honestly, they seemed to have a mind of their own. John – no, the wolf, I should remember that – seemed to have no qualms with that, moaning his approval.

When I tugged him up for another kiss before he could get his hands down there he grinned and didn't protest. It wasn't that I didn't want that – I did, very much – but I needed a bit more of (fake) love to tide me over before actual sex.

The following moments aren't all that clear in my mind despite my decision to store it forever in my treasure vault. One single long lick on the underside of my penis and all higher brain functions were suddenly disconnected, never to be rebooted , or so I feared for a moment. He must have sensed my panic at that, because he barked, “Relax,” before going back to overwhelming me with pleasure.

I know that I must have been prepared by him, as the act didn't hurt me, and I have only a vague recollection of a tongue going into most surprising places, but I wouldn't swear that it wasn't a hallucination driven by hormonal inbalance. Sex with John was a most potent drug. How had his girlfriends ever had the strength to leave him?

My next coherent thought was – again – a flash of fear when I tried to roll over for him (surely the wolf would like it doggy style?) and he stopped me, groaning, “I want to see you.” It wouldn't do. I couldn't school my expression for the life of me then. What if what I showed went past the pleasure? What if I revealed the raw need I held for him? The love? Once he (it? What did I believe about that?) knew that I was much more invested in this than he was, he would mock me. Lord that knowledge over me. The wolf wasn't to be deterred though, so I surrendered.

I tried to lose myself, to become a being of mere instinct, only reacting to sensorial input, and he helped me with that. There was surely enough going on in my body to keep my brain busy (or, to be honest and more precise, once again fried). Relentless surges of pleasure were running through me, and I was left barely gasping his name, the only thing that hadn't been washed away from my mind.

It wasn't at all the violent assault that I'd been fearing, though. His strength was leashed – and used purposefully to drive me further and further out of my mind. I know that I screamed his name when I came, while he made almost no sound at all. How could he have that much control? _He_ was the beast. It wasn't fair. Did he sense my pouty mood? A second later, he was querying, “It _was_ good for you, yeah?”

“Best way to stop my brain for a bit that I found yet,” I admitted. He grinned, taking it as the huge compliment it was. “Though maybe not the cleanest,” I amended. I really needed a shower, but I felt like jelly still and even one door away the bathroom seemed so very far.

“But worth it,” the wolf claimed. I still felt a sliver of uncertainty in his voice, so I assured him, “It bears repetition. And you know I usually hate it.”

“Good,” he declared, grinning again.

Of course I wanted it repeated. I might not ever be able to wean myself off this. Now, if only I could have this with John instead of the wolf, I'd die wanting for nothing. But now wasn't the time to be dejected. Now I should really enjoy the natural oxytocin high. Let myself be happy for a bit.

He didn't have long to do the same, though, because he arched in discomfort, howling, and changed into his furry form. Now I really needed that shower to wake me up so that I could follow him. When I made to sluggishly get up, though, he barked, “Stay,”...and then gave me a thorough, rather entusiastic tongue bath, to which I was too surprised to react properly. “I've tired you out. It's a compliment,” he said, sounding indeed smug. “Don't worry. I'll just let myself out, patrol the area a few times and get back. Have to make sure the neighbourhood is safe. Don't worry, I won't attack anyone who is unarmed. You sleep.”

“Are you sure?” I didn't want him to be alone.

“Sleep,” he reiterated.

I decided to obey, but in the end, I couldn't. Yes, I was tired. Still, sleep eluded me. I was cold. And I kept mentally following him, or trying to. I knew that I wouldn't be at ease until he was by my side. Mmmm...if John's presence became necessary for me to rest, it could prove troublesome. Outside these days, I couldn't exactly ask him to stay with me, could I? Sleeping was bothersome enough on its own. I couldn't become dependent on my friend for it.

No matter what I reasoned, I couldn't relax enough to crash until I heard him back. I got up (to check if he had managed to lock the door properly after himself , I told myself – peculiar that such a detail hadn't bothered me when he left) and queried if he needed anything.

“Uh...no thanks. I'm good. Not hungry tonight. Then again, I didn't run as much. Missed it a bit.” Of course. I should have been there with him. He wasn't scolding me, but he didn't need to. I was perfectly capable of that myself. “Missed you, to be honest. But I thought you'd be sleeping,” he remarked as if it was commonplace.

Not knowing how to react to such a declaration, I ignored it. “In a minute,” I replied instead. “As soon as you heap on my bed too. It's big enough.”

The wolf smiled and obeyed. Once again, I hugged him, wishing that I dared to hold him closer still, and at the same time hoping to God that, tomorrow, John wouldn't be too disgusted. He did consent, and we'd already shared a bed innocently, but I was still afraid of his judgement. Only ever his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. The book “Planet Narnia” is on 221B shelves in A study in pink. Before John moves in. So, actually canonically possible. If you're inspired to fawnlock, let me know please.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine still. Back to John's point of view.

Waking up in Sherlock's bed wouldn't have been a problem. Waking up in Sherlock's bed after some erotic dreams that starred him (dreams, surely, not memories; I never remembered the wolf's activities...unless he was taunting me? Could he?) and with a raging erection as a consequence of them was decidedly awkward and uncomfortable.

Thank God that my friend was asleep still and hence unaware of my plight. I toyed for all of fifteen long seconds with the idea to wake him up and come onto him, pretending to still be my wildest self. But the man beside me, still half asleep or not, was the most observant in Europe (at least) and there was no way that the wolf had no tells. He'd see through me, then I would have to move out out of shame, and my hard on really wasn't worth the hassle.

Angry at myself for even considering the project, I got up and slipped in the bathroom for a cold shower (I wasn't about to indulge my stubborn body after what I'd almost done). I vowed to spend the day as normal as I could be, and as  _friendly,_ hoping that after getting his way the werecreature in me would fall asleep for a while. And even if I myself had not much hope that things would go like this, it turned out to actually be true. Maybe Sherlock had worn the wolf out (and I really didn't want to ruminate on what this implied). 

Since the very start of my new condition, I had hated my change and all his implications. A week later, though, I suddenly discovered that being a werewolf could offer some advantages.

Mycroft had brought us a case, and for once Sherlock hadn't pretended to not want it. After the silly things he'd amused himself with while he was concentrated on my condition (not quite Bluebell rank, but close), he must have been gagging for a proper case. To be honest, I was, too. A bit. (Only to feel useful instead than a problem for my friend, of course.)

So we had agreed to look into who was leaking data that really should never have been leaked. And not to Wikileaks (which would have been embarrassing enough), but to some not very nice people who might have used said data to cause havoc Mycroft really didn't want to have to deal with.

My friend teased his brother about the low quality of their people hiring, and the eldest replied that, contrarily to Sherlock himself, he didn't need to pick only one person and statistically these things were bound to happen. Mummy would be so disappointed in her youngest for not realizing this.

I had left Sherlock at home metaphorically – and not – connecting the dots to go buy something I could maybe coax him into eating despite it being mid case ( I know him, and know how to tempt him by now). I thought he would be safe. I thought wrong.

When I went back, there was no Sherlock home. And it was evident that he hadn't left of his own accord. If only because the case related web of strings on the wall had been destroyed and he wouldn't bother with it until the criminals had been apprehended.

My bag fell forgotten to the floor, and I inhaled sharply in shock. That's when I noticed it. My sense of smell had become much sharper (and that, with some of Sherlock's experiments was a right pain) and now I could smell the intruders who dared to do this. I growled ferally to the empty room.

I needed to get Sherlock back, but how could I? Before I dragged Mycroft here to work his own bloody case, or called Lestrade, or even the bloody army to deal with this, I suddenly realized that I _could._

Give Sherlock a speck of dirt and he'll find you an address. I wasn't Sherlock, but I was a goddamned dog, and the mix of smells in my enemies' scent tracks did give me a hint about the places they must have been. Hopefully their base. So I applied Sherlock's methods – well, my own version of it – and in the end, if I didn't have an exact address, I was confident to have identified at least a general area, not too wide either.

I took my gun and left, taking a cab. I thought about warning Mycroft, or someone, but even if the eldest Holmes knew about me, I wasn't sure how to explain to his minions, if he gave me some as backup, that I would smell people out. And anyway, there was no time to lose.

So there I went, and once in the general area I started patrolling, in the hope to pick up either Sherlock's or the criminals' trail. Almost immediately I caught Sherlock's scent. It was mixed with the metallic tang of blood, and once again I growled, sprinting towards the warehouse it came from.

I busted in, shooting down two people who tried to stop me. Seeing my friend ( _mate_ , the wolf growled inside me – and for once, I heard him) chained and bleeding – they were filming what happened, the bastards – my inner beast took the lead.

The gun forgotten, I leapt against Sherlock's attackers, I leapt against Sherlock's aggressors, and disabled them in hand to hand combat, breaking their bones most satisfyingly, and leaving them whining on the floor. All the while, I was growling and snarling, and missing my fangs to open their throat with.

For once, my human self hadn't blacked out when the wolf was in control. Rather, I was observing my deeds, as odd as that sounds, with a wild and grim sort of satisfaction. I hadn't dished out anything that these people didn't amply deserve after all.

When I went to unchain Sherlock, he told me, “You've already saved me. Let's go home.”

“I know,” I replied simply.

“You know?” he echoed, raising a puzzled brow. “But the one who did it...wasn't it...”

“The wolf, yes,” I cut in, “and you're right, he was in control for quite a while. For once, though, he let me be aware of what was happening.”

“And you didn't protest his taking control?” my friend queried. Sensible question, given my distaste for that new part of me.

I decided to answer honestly. “Given the occasion, I was cheering him on.”

Sherlock smiled softly at me. Only t9o remark, a moment later, surprised, “Mycroft's driver didn't wait for us? That's one fired man.”

“I didn't contact Mycroft. And I didn't tell the cabbie to wait because I honestly didn't know how long it'd take me to find you,” I replied, a little bashful. I should have anticipated what happened.

“You didn't involve Mycroft? And how did you find me? Lestrade wouldn't have left you go in alone...or he'd have soon followed at least,” Sherlock reasoned.

“I might be more of a dog than we expected. I kinda tracked the scents,” I revealed, willing myself not to blush in shame at my canine traits showing, even if I' d been so grateful for them a short while ago.

“That's amazing,” my friend replied, and the reversal didn't feel like a mockery. He seemed really awed. “Then I'll leave the kidnapping cases to you from now on, shall I?”

“Don't joke,” I grumbled.

He only smiled at me. In the meantime, we'd managed to attract a cab, and soon we were back home, where I could satisfyingly patch him up. Luckily, it looked worse than it actually was.

“They said that they were going to send the video to Mycroft to teach him they were not to be messed with. That's why we pretend to hate each other – so people won't think such things will work – but this time our ruse utterly failed. He won't like that,” Sherlock huffed.

“Pretend to hate?” I echoed, amused. It was surely a thorough guise.

“Yeah, well, he'll always be a pompous, meddling git, but I don't despise him quite as much as I affect to,” my friend confessed.

“And are your brother's stalker tendencies a front, too?” I quipped.

“I'm afraid that they're perfectly genuine,” Sherlock bit back with a smirk. We shared a laugh.

“By the way, we should let Mycroft know to collect the people you incapacitated, before they run away,” my friend said conversationally.

“I sent him a text with the address in the cab,” I replied. Sherlock kept his eyes closed then, so he hadn't noticed.

“Perfect assistant you are, John. I'm sure that Mycroft wishes he'd found you first,” my detective remarked. I preened a bit at the praise. Mentally, of course.

“Mycroft and I? That would never work,” I pointed out casually. “He looks boring.”

I had used that adjective on purpose, and as I expected, it garnered a delighted chuckle from my friend. I loved that sound, and I loved being the one to cause it. But anyone would have, right?

“I'm telling my brother you said that,” Sherlock said merrily.

“Feel free to. I'm not particularly after his favour,” I replied with a shrug. No, I already had won the approval of the only Holmes I cared about. (Maybe too much?)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

 

John being aware of the wolf's actions, of course, required careful examination. Was it the start of further changes inside my friend? A fluke? Or did it depend on some variable that had now happened for the first time?

“John, forgive me for asking in a most imprecise manner, but...are you feeling closer to your wolf self?” I queried the following day.

The heartfelt, “No, and God, I hope I'm not going to be – I'd say that I'm more than enough wolf, don't you?” I got in reply shot down my first hypothesis (unless it could happen without John realizing it – but I didn't think so).

I shrugged in response to his question. I didn't care what he was. I loved him either way.

His distaste for that part of him was still strong, then. I couldn't help but wish that he realized that the wolf did nothing which deserved his hatred. Though of course now that the creature was bedding me maybe John was disgusted by that, too. It certainly didn't help him change opinion about his other self.

I didn't think that offering to stop our dalliances in order for him to be a bit more in John's good graces would be that well received by the wolf, though. And honestly, I wasn't keen on renouncing it either. Even after only once, I'm afraid that I was entirely hooked to the feeling.

But now was not the moment to dwell on that, before I made myself want what was not mine to request. I simply had to be there for my...mate, to use his words, when he needed it. I couldn't ask for it – especially because my friend was now in control of his body.

So back to work, Sherlock. John has been aware of the wolf's actions. Possible variables that might have caused this? Recall the scene. (And try not to dwell on how downright sexy he looked – that avenue will bring me nowhere, as already stated. It really shouldn't be so difficult. I'm disappointed in myself.)

What was different between that wolf and the usual wolf? Besides, of course, that for the first time he looked murderous. I hoped bloodlust was not the thing that opened a channel between John's separate identities. That would be troublesome and spell things I didn't want to believe about my friend's nature.

Of course, I started with the external, measurable variables that could have prompted this, from the weather to chemicals present in the atmosphere of that warehouse. But that avenue of thinking left me without a viable conclusion – though it might very well be because I was no expert about werewolves' biochemistry.

I was afraid that John's new condition, occasional as it might be, was destined to remain a mystery to me, when I had an epiphany. I remembered him saying that he was cheering the wolf on, and the creature's claim to be no more than the manifestation of my friend's deeper instincts.

So maybe the wolf blocked him out when he took over not to have to deal with John's protests – or his uncomfortableness with the situation – but if my friend agreed with the proceedings, his subconscious saw no reason to exclude him entirely from what was happening. It was a plausible hypothesis, and as anyone else, needed confirmation through experiments.

Before that, though, I had a question. “John, when you were aware of the wolf's actions, was it better than being unconscious of them? Something you would care to repeat?” Being conscious but trapped in one's own body could, after all, be the definition of nightmare. I didn't mean to hurt him unwittingly.

“Well, at least I knew that I didn't hurt anyone that didn't amply deserve it when I was. Yes, I would say that being aware even when not in control is something I'd like on a regular basis,” he replied.

Now, though, I was stumped because what could I prompt the wolf into doing that John would agree with? My friend didn't trust his other self. There was, of course, the saving me business, but I wasn't about to turn into a damsel in distress. I try to keep a balance between the times we save each other, at least outwardly. Without appearing to, he's saved me from myself more times than I can count already.

I tried to devise something that would not require me to give the experimentation away, but John's fear of the wolf was too deep seated. So, , even though it would be best to keep John unaware of the ongoing experiments, from a scientific standpoint, I gave up in that and informed him of my theory in order to have his cooperation in proving or disproving it.

“I've been thinking – I know that you trust me to take care of the wolf, and I'm really grateful for it – but if you want to be conscious of his actions, maybe you simply should start trusting him, or yourself, as it were, a bit more. You said that he didn't shut you out when you both agreed on what had to be done,” I said. Maybe not my most clear explanation, but I was a bit hesitant, as I knew he wouldn't like the idea.

“How can I trust it, Sherlock, it's -” he replied, frustrated.

“He's not a thing, to begin with, and you could give him the proper pronoun at least,” I cut him off. “He's you, well, part of you, and you should really stop worrying that he would rip someone's throat open without reason.”

“Have you forgotten that I've – it...he, if you want, has – attacked _you_ in the past?” John queried, aghast at the memory.

“Subdued, John. There's a difference. You've never actually hurt me. Why can't you trust yourself?”

I pointed out calmly.

“ _That thing_ is not me!” my friend yelled.

“And who else would he be then?” I challenged, echoing almost exactly what the creature had once told me.

“The devil, for all I know!” John huffed.

“Don't be ridiculous, John!” I scolded sharply.

“Because werewolves existing makes perfect sense but the devil doing so instead is absurd, is it?” he snorted.

“Because if your hypothesis is right, the devil is a much maligned, exceedingly pleasant fellow,” I countered with a shrug.

“Right. I'd forgotten _how very much_ you like the bloody wolf,” John said bitterly. I couldn't help but blush a bit.

“That's not what we are discussing. I have a working hypothesis about how you could be more aware of the creature's doings, which _you_ said was desirable. All I'm asking is that you stop being terrified of yourself. Agree with the wolf sometimes. Or at least try to. It could not work for all I know, but we won't know until you try. There's nothing in you that should inspire fear and hatred, John. Really. And I'm not saying so because of my...dalliances, if that's what you're implying. I am simply doing my best to analyse the situation,” I stated, trying to project a cold scientist and not an embarrassed lover.

“And I know that your best is pretty much the absolute possible best, but trusting it...him, is difficult,” John admitted, now less confrontational.

“I know, John. All I ask is that you try. Every now and then, at least. For science, John!” I cajoled enthusiastically.

He laughed unamusedly. “You and your science! 'Sherlock Holmes: on the scientific approach to bloody mythical creatures. A monography.' ”

“It doesn't sound so bad. If the situation was reversed, you'd have published 'My flatmate is a werewolf', or some other inane title,” I replied.

“I wouldn't have,” John assured me, and I knew it was heartfelt.

“And why not? Nobody would have believed you anyway.” I shrugged.

“You're not suggesting me to go public, are you?” he wondered, baffled.

“No, no, I quite like it as our little secret.” The last thing I wanted were occult fangirls throwing themselves at John. Even uncomfortable about the wolf as he was, he'd have obviously ended accepting their offers – and he wouldn't need me in that capacity anymore. No matter what the wolf said.

“All I'm asking is that you trust yourself – agree with the wolf's actions – sometimes. If not for science, for me,” I stated with a weak grin. “He won't shut you out, then...or so I hope.”

“For you, I'll have to try, then. You've done so much for me. But honestly the idea of agreeing with the beast terrifies me,” John said, giving in at last.

I could have pointed out that he'd already done so, but I didn't think he'd like the reminder. So instead I replied. “I hope that you'll have a pleasant surprise, John. He's really not bad. Even with your strict morals, I believe that you'll find out that agreeing to his projects might be acceptable. And you wouldn't have these annoying blackouts anymore.”

“Or I'll prove your theory wrong,” my friend bit back.

“Of course,” I agreed. But I didn't believe it'd happen.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing. Back to John's point of view._

Of course, the primary objection to Sherlock's theory came to me long after we'd been discussing his hypothesis. Just as well, because I couldn't even think about it without blushing, much less tell him. “If agreeing with what he's about to do was the key, I'd be fully aware each time you two have sex,” was not something I could confess casually.

Then again, I seemed to have some sort of partial recollection of it (if they weren't simply wet dreams – I wasn't sure which I hoped for). Maybe the sheer embarrassment and the not little jealousy – I could admit as much if only to myself – were what blocked me out from experiencing, if second-handedly, the actual sex.

What would do well to block me out again, I couldn't exactly be a voyeur of myself (well, my body)... coupling with Sherlock, what if he noticed it. That'd surely be more than a little not good, right?

See, that's why I hated the wolf. No, not for 'mating' – as he'd say – with Sherlock. For making my life so absurdly complicated. And I was supposed to trust it (him) now. Well, if I trusted him I'd be aware of his doings – said Sherlock – and if I was maybe I could fight back for control the moment he did something unacceptable. I tried to meditate. Maybe once I relaxed I could be less on edge about my other half. It didn't do much.

Then came the day Mycroft tried to give us another mission, and Sherlock refused. “Talk him round, will you John? Queen and country and all that,” the elder Holmes said to me with a put upon sigh.

I opened my mouth to agree, but the wolf came forth, and when I heard myself talk, I was suddenly all for him. “You smell of lies,” I growled, “ my priority is protecting Sherlock, and if you can't have the decency to be honest with your kin I'm surely not pushing him into this.”

“I didn't expect you to catch that. Bravo, John.” Sherlock grinned, and the wolf beamed. Lie detector, too? No matter how less than fond of him I was, the beast could be mightily useful.

Mycroft ended up confessing what he'd hoped not to out, we took the case after all and Sherlock solved it in three days – in case you were worried about this country's safety.

I was becoming slowly more open to the wolf, as Sherlock had suggested, and I was honestly surprised to find him different from the monster I expected. Then came the day I was sure he'd prove me right.

Since we were taking cases again, Lestrade called us on a crime scene. When, upon laying eyes on Donovan, I felt suddenly shoved to the back of my mind, I was for a second terrified, sure that I'd kill her and be jailed for life and...then I forced myself to calm down. I didn't truly want her dead, so I wouldn't kill her (I hoped).

When I became suddenly aware of my actions, though not in control of them, I heard Sally's outraged, “ 'Stop it?' What's your problem today?”

“That you don't behave like a professional. Frankly, your childish bickering gets tiring,” I said, my voice this side of growling. Donovan paled in rage.

“John,” Sherlock called, trying to defuse the situation, half in warning and half placating, and I almost giggled at the reversal of our usual dynamic.

Since I hadn't bit her after all (God, werewolf Donovan would be a nightmare), I will confess that I found myself enjoying the wolf's actions. How long had I wanted to tell her off? Since the very first meeting, indeed.

“I know you can fight your own battles but – she shouldn't be enemy. She should be _pack_. It's annoying!” the wolf said petulantly to my friend. At least he didn't whine it.

“Pack?” Sally echoed, finally finding her voice again. “The freak's?” She looked suspiciously at Sherlock. “What did you do, drug him?”

“Might have, but I thought it had worn off already,” my friend replied bashfully at the same time I bit back, “He's not.”

“You know the rules,” she said gleefully, “No junkies at crime scenes.”

“I'm clean,” Sherlock pointed out sharply “thank you for offering to babysit, Sally.” I couldn't contain a soft growl of displeasure at his word choice.

Her face scrunched in disgust. “Oh go on, both of you. He's useless anyway.”

Once again, I let out a low, deeper, warning growl – a clear threat – going past her. Then the wolf finally left me in control, to retreat to sulk about what had happened, I imagined, and I queried quietly, “Why?”

“It was simpler,” Sherlock said with a shrug. Simpler than explaining my sudden lack in impulse control (at least I hadn't physically attacked her) or my peculiar word choice. She'd have us sectioned if we'd told her the truth.

I still didn't like what had happened – but God, it had been satisfying to finally tell Donovan off, if without success. I was starting to see Sherlock's point. The wolf wasn't a bad fellow. At all. Once again, the case was solved quickly (the murderers weren't burglars, but the house owner's lover), but it was always a privilege to see Sherlock work.

The wolf's restraint towards Sally (mayb because he knew she could throw us in a cell?) went a long way towards reassuring me that he wasn't a 'I'll indiscriminately tear you to pieces' kind of beast (God knew Donovan was annoying). More than Sherlock's reassurances ever could.

Since that time, I was more comfortable in my new skin. Mind you, the wolf still took the lead whenever he wished, with no previous warning. But this didn't terrify me as much anymore. I trusted him not to go around munching on people for the heck of it. (Of course, if anyone attacked us – or Sherlock – we were fully justified then.)

And once again – as always, really – Sherlock was proved right. (Well no, not as always. He's human. He makes mistakes. But rarely enough that people often forget it. And he _really_ doesn't like to be reminded of it. As everyone else.)

I didn't black out anymore. Which was a lot less confusing and scary. Not ideal – ideal would always be not having been bitten in the first place, being _human –_ but this way I could definitely cope with my condition. Hell, I was looking forward to the next full moon. If I wasn't shut out then I might get to experience being a...dog. (I still wasn't entirely comfortable thinking of myself as a wolf – a wild beast.)

It was bound to be different. Interesting, a bit. I'd be playing with Sherlock – and for once he wouldn't be insisting that the rules were wrong (not many rules in playing tag.) Sensing my eagerness, the wolf snickered. Oh, how I'd changed in a few weeks.

There was this, too. Beyond being aware of his actions when he was the one in control, now I would occasionally catch strands of the creature's thoughts even when when he was in the background, so to speak. Mostly thoughts about me, so maybe he was thinking _at_ me – how such a thing was even possible all inside my head I had no idea.

Usually they were disparaging, annoyed huffs at how slow and blind I was, though he never explained about what. Actually, maybe Sherlock had rubbed off on my wild side more than a bit. It made sense. Well used to it, I didn't let such things faze me, not even a moment. I don't think even Sherlock noticed when that happened. I didn't get lost in thought arguing with the beast – there would be no use to it – or startled by his comments, beyond the first time, when I was luckily alone. Actually contemplating if, given the wolf's more meek nature, I should have tried dating again. The, “Don't you dare!” that angrily invaded my thoughts was, to put it mildly, unexpected.

So the creature took exception to the idea of two-timing Sherlock. I could give into him, I supposed. Wait to date again until the two of them broke up. After all, unless Sherlock had one serious zoophilia kink I would never have pegged him as, sooner rather than later the novelty of this would have worn off for him. He'd realize that fucking the wolf was, after all, too close to having sex with me, he'd get bored and break up their arrangement. “Idiot,” the wolf intruded my thoughts once again. Well, we'd see, wouldn't we?

Of course the creature hoped to keep Sherlock. Permanently. The same way I hoped he'd never decide that he didn't need my assistance on cases, after all (the wolf's qualities might have helped push away that dreaded eventuality). Or that flat sharing wasn't a necessity anymore.

Though I suspected it had never been a need, in the first place, more Mycroft's way to ensure that someone would notice if Sherlock passed out on his own floor after starving himself. Both brothers liked my set of skills, luckily. Hopefully Sherlock would never move away, if only because it'd be impractical having to come back afterwards all the times he didn't fancy a trip to A&E.

How many of our – mine and the wolf's – hopes would come to pass? Surely all of them would be too high an expectation to have. (Just not none. Please don't let it be none. I needed Sherlock in my life somehow.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock’s point of view.

John had not let me know the results of his experiments, after two weeks. Whether that happened because he had failed in trusting his other self – still too scared of him – and didn’t want to admit it, or because he’d tried and failed and was sparing my feelings, keeping me from hearing how wrong I had been in my hypothesis, I was uncertain.

The fact that my experiment could have worked, and John could have chosen to keep it a secret because of his ambivalent feelings towards forging a deeper connection with the wolf, I didn’t take into consideration. I thought that, being well aware of his status as the object of my studies, it would never flit through my friend’s mind to conceal highly relevant data from me. 

I can be really blind to the inner working of people’s psyche – even of the ones closer to me. That could have easily destroyed the most precious treasure I had gained in my life, but instead – but I’m running ahead in my tale. 

To start with the beginning, I admit that I was not a little surprised when one morning, over tea, the wolf suddenly came to the forefront only to remind me, “Wolves mate for life, you know.” 

“I am well aware of that,” I replied with a small smile of my own. It was a comforting notion. 

“I don’t think you are. Not really. Once the novelty of this wears off – if you meet someone else brilliant like Irene was – I think you’d try to move on. I wouldn’t let you,” he growled angrily.

“For the love of God, I’ve _never_ wanted Irene Adler!” I huffed, exasperated, “so you’re safe from anyone else like her. No need to bristle.” 

“I’m serious, Sherlock,” he warned me, glaring. 

“I am too. I am yours. You needn’t worry,” I assured him softly. What had brought this on?

“Why?” the creature asked, still evidently serious – worried, even. 

“Why what?” I countered evenly.

“Why mine, when you haven’t wanted your flatmate before? We’re not that different, and you refused him – the very first day, remember? At Angelo’s. You shot him down like lightning. What happens when you finally understand that I’m not some exotic being but _him_ , like I’ve been repeating from the start?” he queried, a bit anxious.

“At Angelo’s I barely knew him – and being devastatingly beautiful was no requisite enough for me to want to entangle myself in an inevitably messy relationship,” I explained honestly. 

“Devastatingly?” the wolf echoed, his lips curling in a smug, amused smirk. 

“Yes,” I grouched. Now that it had slipped out, there was no way to deny it. “Anyway, I’m certainly not going to suddenly dump you because you’re John – or part of him. That’s the only reason I accepted your courtship in the first place, you know,” I admitted. 

“Because you care for your friend?” the creature snarled, still clearly unsatisfied.

Could I say the truth? It seemed nothing less would make the wolf happy – and Johnstill wouldn’t know. Heart beating madly, I confessed, “Because I was in love with him long before you came into the picture.” That should reassure him. I hadn’t meant to say it – ever – but the wolf cared for me. Hopefully he wouldn’t mock my weakness.  

But evidently the experiment I suggested had _worked_ , and John had been aware of the conversation, because suddenly, the wild flame of the wolf disappeared from my friend’s eyes, and it was undoubtedly my flatmate who queried, very softly, “Were you now?”

I swallowed in sheer panic, unable to form an answer. Now John would become disgusted (I had been _using_ the creature to pretend it was him – it was all too apparent now) or angry (I’d tricked the consent out of him by hiding that little detail) or both. He would walk away from me. Permanently. I felt sick wityh dread. I should have lied – denied it, stated that I said so only to assuage the wolf – but I couldn’t make myself do so. I offered him a tiny nod, eyes closed not to see his undoubtedly outraged reaction.       

“Open your eyes,” he ordered – voice softer than I expected. I obeyed – I certainly didn’t want to enrage him any further – but stared at the floor, unseeing, unable to face him. He allowed it for the moment. “How long, Sherlock?” John queried evenly. 

_ What does it matter?  _ I wanted to huff impatiently. Would my crime be judged more harshy the longer it went on? “I realized it at the pool,” I replied dutifully, instead, my voice smaller than I would have liked, “but I’m afraid it started way earlier than that.”

“That was months ago!” John yelled. He was unmistakably angry now. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” 

I locked eyes with him now, incensed by his idiocy. “Because I didn’t want to ruin everything and have you move out. Obviously!” I spit back. 

“Who said anything about moving out?” he replied, apparently surprised. But he would, of course he would. What good did pretending now? 

“As if you would have tolerated my unrequited pining. So yes, I hid it, and yes, I took whatever I could. What you – and the wolf – didn’t mind giving. I don’t ask for anything more, John. I promise, I’ll never ask. Just please don’t take it back. Please. Can’t we pretend that I never said anything? Oh! I know. I’ll teach you how to delete things and you can do so.” I was rambling by this point, but I had no idea how to help the situation. (Every time I open my mouth people hate me – of course John’s exception to that rule couldn’t last.)

“No we can’t!” John yelled, and then added, much more softly, “I’m certainly not going to delete it.”

“Why?” I whined in despair. I wanted his friendship at least. I _needed_ it. And now I’d botched it. Stupid stupid _stupid!_

“Because I don’t want to,” he replied simply. “I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock. You hid your feelings because you assumed things. You of all people should really know better.” My friend clicked his tongue.

What was he hinting at? No no no, certainly not what he seemed to be saying. I couldn’t get hopeful now. It would crush me in a few seconds. Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “What do you mean?” I hated how weak my voice sounded.

His, instead, was fully confident when he ordered, “Tell me.”

I considered pretending not to know what he wanted me to say, but decided against it – it would only delay the inevitable, and I hadn’t done anything bad this time. Inconvenient, maybe, but I didn’t want to put it in the Not Good category. So I threw it at him like a challenge, “I’m in love with you.” 

He offered me the warmest, fondest smile of his collection (the one I filed under number 43) and replied, “I love you too.”

“What?” I croaked, flabbergasted. “No, you can’t, you don’t, don’t _mock me_ John.” My voice raised in indignation. 

“I’m not,” he assured me, his own voice soft but strong. “What makes you think I would?”

“How about the fact that you’re very vocally not gay?” I queried, still resisting to accept this seemingly wonderful truth. Because if he _was_ teasing me and I fell for it…I couldn’t stand it. 

John had the gall to smirk at that. “Of course I’m not. I’m very firmly bisexual; if you need confirmation, feel free to ring a few of my army mates. Since I was crushing so hard on you, pulling any other males was simply unappealing – no one would be you, and I couldn’t settle for anything less. And since you had shot me down, I tried dating a few girls, hoping they’d make me forget you. I failed abysmally at that – obviously. Even the dimmer ones noticed whom I really was in love with, at some point. I was sure you knew – and didn’t mind, as long as I didn’t bother you. I mean, I was pretty obvious, and you always seemed to be able to read my thoughts.”

“The grit in the lens,” I declared self-deprecatingly, shaking my head in disappointment at myself, “I had too much to contend with my own feelings to be able to properly analyse yours. Each time I hoped, I firmly told myself that I was surely only misreading things according to my own wishes. And I couldn’t afford a wrong move, John. I couldn’t lose you.”

“You’re not losing me. You can’t lose me unless you send me away – and even then, the wolf might want to object to that. Rather strongly, I’m afraid,” he replied with a gentle smile. 

I smiled back – in truth, I almost laughed at the prospect. “I have been called a madman many times, but not even I am that crazy – or that autodestructive – as to try to chase you away. You’re my lifeline, John,” I confessed quietly. 

“You know, you say that you love me, but you’re not acting on it,” John pointed out, gently teasing. 

I have to admit that, overwhelmed as I was by the discovery, that train of thought hadn’t still entered my mind. I had permission to act on my desires. No, John _wanted_ me to take action. Unable to compute, and still more than a little unsure, I abruptly kissed him. Well, it was more a quick peck on the lips. I still couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t react angrily to my daring to do so. 

“You tease,” he remarked with a smile. Then John proceeded to claim my lips in an ardent, drawn out kiss that left me weak in the knees. “I wanted this for ages,” he declared once it ended. 

I nodded, which I hoped would translate to, “me too,” because if I had opened my mouth I was afraid I’d be moaning.    

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Yes I know, I'm a tease too. I apologise.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. John’s point of view. I apologize in advance because it’s probably a failure, but that’s all John wanted to say.

When the wolf had huffed at me, sounding very much like someone I knew, “Your eternal angsting is boring. Just ask him, will you?” I couldn’t refuse such a proposal with enough vehemence. It just wasn’t done. After all, I could only see my fears confirmed – or so I believed – and probably precipitate their coming true.

The stern, “If you don’t, I will,” I got in reply terrified me. The only comfort I had was that I wouldn’t be aware of his destroying my life, as I was entirely against that foolish idea. But it seemed that the wolf was the master of our connection, shutting me out when he thought that I’d be a bother, and he very much wanted me to hear this.

I can never be grateful enough to him for his decisions, because what I heard – incredible as it was – completely changed my life. Sherlock loved _me_. Me. Not him. Well, not just him at least.

A few much needed explanations, and we were kissing like there was no tomorrow. I never thought it could happen to me, if not vicariously, through the wolf, and once started, I wasn’t incline to stop anytime soon. So I kept kissing him again and again, until he moaned in my mouth and instinctively bucked his hips against me. I have to say that I was very glad for the proof that I wasn’t the only one who was getting insanely turned on by a little snogging.

At that I stopped kissing long enough to ask, “More?” and he nodded rather enthusiastically. I absolutely adored reducing the Sherlock Holmes to worldlessness, but once again I asked, “What do you want then?”

“You John. All of you. Please _. Finally_ ,” he replied throatily. Well, I certainly echoed the sentiment. As he seemed to have gone quite boneless, it stood to me to tug him towards his bedroom – tempting as it was, I wasn’t going to have him on the kitchen table for _my_ first time.

Stripping en route was Sherlock’s initiative, though, once he caught up with what was really happening (it took him about five seconds). Someone was eager, uh? (Who was I kidding. I was just like him – so I followed his example.)

When we reached the bedroom, we were entirely naked and giddy. I almost went right to business, but then I remembered to ask, “Do you want to top?”

Sherlock blinked, apparently surprised, and then queried, “You’d let me?”

“Of course. Whatever you want,” I assured him. Besides, it was only fair, wasn’t it?

“Another time, maybe?” He sounded uncertain if it was an option at all. “I think I want you to make love to me now.”

“As I said, whatever you want, whenever you want, love.” I grinned.

I’ve not acquired my reputation as a lover by skipping foreplay, so I started teasing him with caresses and what I thought were randomly placed kisses. Judging by the way each one never failed to elicite deep moans, I’d later wonder if it was more of a case of muscle memory of exactly what made Sherlock melt.

I was busying myself with his collarbone, when I felt the wolf trying to take control again, excited. “Don’t you _dare_!” I internally growled (I couldn’t give _this_ up) and amazingly, for the first time the creature obeyed and retreated deep inside of me.

Sherlock’s mewls and throaty moans are undubitably the single most erotic sound in all the parallel universes, so, unable to get enough of them, I kept teasing him with my mouth and hands (no matter how much part of me wanted to just take him) until he ordered me in a deep growl to, “Bloody _fuck_ me, John!” - I obliged him, of course.

Mystical. That’s the only word adequate for the experience. It might have something to do with the way he kept chanting my name in a breathless litany – to which I answered with broken syllables of his name and all the endearments I could think of (not that many, actually, because my inner thesaurus had somehow evaporated). But mostly I think it was simply because it was _him_ , and he wanted me, incredible as it was, and I had worshipped him long before this and no saint’s extase could possibly compare with being one with _my_ Sherlock.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine,” echoed inside my head, in time with my thrusts, and I honestly wasn’t sure nor cared whose thought it was. Finally, his orgasm – screaming my name one last time – triggered mine, and unable to utter his in its entirety, so overwhelmed I was, I could only call back, “Sher!”  

As soon as we reemerged from our shared otherworldly experience, I proposed a shower. A shared one.

“Not fair. It’s too soon to enjoy it,” Sherlock pouted.

I laughed. “Oh don’t worry, we’ll enjoy plenty of them in the future, I promise. But for now I don’t want to give up the closeness. Say what, if you agree with me, I’ll tell you a secret.” With such bait, how could he disagree? I smiled to myself – I did know him.

We might not have played in the shower, but I was still giddy with the permission to touch, to kiss – hell, even simply to ogle him aware that he knew what I was thinking and very much didn’t. He did, instead, reciprocate fully and loved it despite his earlier objections.

“Now your secret,” he prompted eagerly the moment we were out of the shower, without giving me even the time to grab a bathrobe.

“I love your name because it sounds as half an endearment in itself, mon Sher,” I revealed. Mon cher – pronounced just the same – meant my dear in French. I adored that I couldn’t call his name without saying it. Dear Lock sounded just right.

“I didn’t know that you spoke French. My mother’s family has French roots, and she insisted.” He looked surprised, and mildly embarrassed.

“I don’t know much French beyond a few endearments,” I know endearments – and insults – in a lot more languages you’d credit me with at first glance. “Isn’t Mycroft jealous of your naming? Is that the reason for your hostility? You being mum’s favourite?”

Sherlock blushed. “I’m _not_. And he has no reason to be. He’s called My Croft, John. He’s _her_ golden boy, if anything.”

I smiled. “Very clever naming, for you both. No wonder you’ve both become so smart.” The Holmes boys didn’t have names, they had charades. Of course they analysed everything.

“You caught up on that,” _mon_ Sherlock pointed out, smiling back.

“I need to keep up at least some of the time, _Sher_.”

“Say it again,” he asked breathlessly.

“Sher,” I repeated obediently, caressing the word. The near ecstatic look he gave me made me say, “So I guess we’ve found your pet name uh, Sher, love?”

“I think we have,” he agreed, “honey bee.” He looked half sheepish adding these last words.

I grinned. “That’s good. Or whatever else you want to call me, that’s good, too. Don’t worry, mon Sher,” I assured him.

He relaxed then, and proposed, “I have that experiment with the ears Molly brought the other day running, and I really should check on it…If you want to supervise it –” 

“Gladly,” I agreed. It was absurd, of course, I didn’t even know what the experiment was about, I couldn’t ‘supervise’ anything. But I correctly interpreted the request as, “Please stay plastered to me while I work,” and I loved not having to find an excuse to stay in the kitchen at his side like in the past. Judging from the continuous soft humming sounds – almost a purr – he made while working, Sherlock was enjoying my warm presence at his back too.

When he put that back – just in time for lunch (if he’d worked up an appetite or wanted to please me I wasn’t sure) – I stated, “I’d say we need to celebrate. What do you say? Angelo’s?”

He nodded, so we went to the restaurant of our first date (errr…case – it’s sort of the same, though). And once Angelo arrived to take our order, with the widest grin on my face, I requested a candle.

The restaurant owner stumbled at that, but then scurried to procure one, and presented it with a flourish and a big grin of his own, saying, “I’m so glad for you boys. I knew you’d come around at last. True love always wins.” So apparently the man had been aware of my protestations in the past – he’d just chosen to ignore them (to push us into this?).

Sherlock, believe it or not, looked surprised by my request. “I didn’t think that you’d want people to know,” he remarked quietly.

“Don’t you?” I queried, suddenly worried. I had thought this was a date, but maybe he’d rather keep things a secret. There was nothing particularly flattering for him in dating me, after all.

“Oh no I want people to know you’re mine but you’ve always been so insistent –”

I cut him off before he could mention my ‘not gay’ moments, saying, “In being an idiot, I know, but in, and I quote, ‘inflicting my opinions’ to the world, too, and I’m so in love with you that I’d love to shout it from the rooftops. What do you say, is a blog post in order? Just to let people know flirting is unwelcome from now on?”

“Let’s make that the title,” Sherlock quipped, with a crooked grin.

I didn’t, in the end. Instead, I titled it ‘Luckiest man alive’. ‘That’d be me, by the way.’ I wrote. ‘Because I’m in love with the most amazing human being on the planet – that is obviously Sherlock, if you haven’t guessed. And he loves me back. So we’re on cloud nine and with absolutely no intention of coming back to Earth ever.

I know, half of you saw this coming and the other half believes this development dates way back (which it doesn’t, really, I couldn’t possibly be this happy and keep it to myself without bursting). Anyhow, I could wax poetry about our love, but you _really_ don’t want to read my attempts at it.

 Just one advice: from now on **, flirting with either of us** **is very unwelcome **(bold at Sherlock’s insistence) so don’t even try it. You don’t want to see what would happen, trust me.’

Sherlock read it all from over my shoulder and kept smiling all the time I typed. God, how I love him!!!     


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not owning the boys. Sherlock’s point of view.

__

I had no idea that it was possible to be this much happy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a mostly happy childhood – even Mycroft was much more bearable back then, or perhaps I simply hadn’t discovered his shortcomings yet – and I’ve been plenty loved by my parents, but nothing has ever come even close to the present heavenly condition.

All because John loves me. And I’m allowed to love him. I can kiss him anytime I get the urge (even at crime scenes, who doesn’t like it can turn their eyes to the dead body). I can take any sort of other initiatives, which he invariably finds brilliant (though they’re mostly concocted by the lizard part of my brain). 

I would normally be angsting about how this can’t possibly last, because I would inevitably do something that would anger, disgust and inevitably drive away my partner. I didn’t, though. The wolf liked to repeat. ‘wolves mate for life,’  and John had certainly never contradicted that statement of his other half. 

That was much more precise than calling one’s lover ‘the other half,’ even if I could appreciate that saying. John certainly felt like a part of me: even his mind palace self seemed much more his own person than merely a mirror of my own thoughts about him – maybe I should look up into werewolves’ telepathic abilities? 

Anyway, I couldn’t doubt both John and the wolf without disrespecting them, which I certainly didn’t mean to do. So I was secure in our love, and my main thought (outside cases, which we both loved and were certainly not giving up) was in how many ways I could show him how much I loved him. 

Even without counting those that involved bed (or the sofa – a table – a wall), our ‘love you’s were plenty. Post-it notes (romantic notes, would you believe me) found their way into our life. When he wasn’t there, I was composing a song on my violin – our song – which I meant to play for him at his birthday (I believed it would be appreciated). I suddenly respected his things – well…mostly – and didn’t destroy any on an experiment. Then again, he didn’t irk me with his silly dates anymore, so I had no reason to.

_ We _ had dates, too (he and I – it still felt incredible, sometimes). And yes, by his old definition of ‘when two people who like each other go out and have fun’ – of course I’d memorised what John said that unfortunate night – each and every case counted as a date, obviously (our favourite ones, too), but we had even more traditional ones. 

Quiet dinners at Angelo’s, where the man couldn’t seem able to stop smiling at us. Visiting the zoo, where most animals seemed cowed by John’s presence. Not the Asian otters, who were their usual playful selves. John said that they were like me, apparently down to the lack of self preservation instincts. I pouted, but that only made him laugh. I vowed then to find some less flattering animal comparison for him than a majestic wolf. I’ll have to research a bit. 

Once, we went at a not criminal circus. “I should invite Sarah too, so you understand how the poor woman felt. But I don’t want to upset you, so…” John said with a smile. 

“You just don’t want to ruin your chance to get off by the end of this,” I teased, remembering his complaints of that night. 

“There’s that, too,” he admitted, laughing.

I didn’t tell him that after yearning for him for so long very few things could stop me from agreeing to (or proposing, for that matter) sex with him. I _really_ didn’t want Sarah’s company tonight. And after all, I didn’t want John to grow excessively smug, however well deserved that would be. 

If only because our love certainly made me bloom – everyone who knew me from before John agreed that love, which I had despised so long, suited me very much and brought out the best in me (John had always done that, to be fair, even before). 

The comments to John’s blog post regarding us ranged from the congratulations to not a few ‘Finally!’ (and yes, some idiots insulted us, but those got immediately deleted – both from the site and my mental hard-drive – as they were not worth our time). 

Of course, Donovan predicted to John that his choice would ultimately destroy him, but for the first time Lestrade, who overheard her, told her to shut up before John or I could reply adequately. I still heard my lover grumble, “Because she picks her partners so well,” under his breath. I almost laughed. Indeed. She could undoubtedly aspire to the betters of Anderson. No matter how unpleasant she was to us, I could recognise that she had many qualities after all. 

It was nice having Lestrade behaving as pack, though. Oh my. John had infected my mind somehow. Well, I _was_ his mate. I supposed it was to be expected. And Lestrade would make a good beta – or gamma, perhaps. Though if I wanted to keep consulting with him, I’d do better to keep those stray thoughts to myself. 

The case in itself was obviously solved very quickly, much to my disappointment with its solution. It had appeared as a locked room murder, which had indeed let me have high hopes for it, but in truth it was only a suicide where someone messed with the crime scene, believing the people who had driven the victim to that should be prosecuted for murder.

Then again, I had John at my side and his light conductive powers seemed to have at least doubled. And no, his powers didn’t consist of my almost overwhelming need to impress him and gain his praise (I know that some policemen think that). He really makes me consider new avenues of reasoning with a casual observation or simply by existing as a reminder of how not-constantly-deducing people think.  Which is one of the many reasons he’s so precious on cases. 

Sometimes, I wonder however I managed before meeting him. The Work was certainly much more painful on several levels – for everyone involved, if Lestrade’s gratefulness to my John is anything to go by. It might seem odd that I’ve gotten better at it now that the Work isn’t the sole focus of my life anymore, but it’s the truth. Maybe it happened because I’m more balanced now and so even my brain can give its best. 

And telling about balance, it seems that I can help John reach his own equilibrium too. He’s not terrified of himself anymore. He has admitted that he’s having regular conversations with himself and I’m wondering if I should teach him how to build a mind palace to give the wolf a proper house when he’s still at the back of his mind. They still disagree sometimes, but they’re mostly very polite with each other from what I can glean. 

The wolf is still likely to randomly appear beyond his nights, but now I’m sure that John lets him. And I certainly never complain. I love all sides of my John. The wolf has always interesting initiatives for which I’m only too glad. And I know, this seems like a euphemism to hint that he’s in truth a sex crazed creature, but I assure you that he can be very playful and seek nothing more than my company.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” John called from the kitchen, which made me laugh, because that was usually my line. He didn’t seem to be complaining like I normally would have been, though. He came into the sitting room, where I had appropriated the sofa, bringing an offer of his perfect tea (no one, not Mrs. Hudson and not even my mother could pull off the heavenly taste of my John’s brews) and querying, “About what, if I can ask?”

“How lucky I am. How happy I am,” I replied honestly. 

“Because of me, I hope,” he replied, lightly teasing. 

I took a sip of the liquid bliss I’d been handed and countered, “Why else? You’re the only person who makes me this happy.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he jested, “I could name a couple of serial killers who could be serious competition in that department.” 

“But you’re the only one I’ve ever loved. The only one I’ll ever love,” I declared softly. As I had hoped, that gained him a passionate kiss. 

“I wish I’d met you much, much earlier,” John said when it ended. 

“I do too. Though the idea of us dancing around each other with unspoken feelings for ten or fifteen years seems a bit wearing.”

“Do you think we would have done that?” my John queried, making a face at the prospect.

“It certainly looks like we needed the extra push from your Es to act upon our desires, and until the wolf made it have its own saying about things…yes, I’m afraid we would have,” I admitted honestly. 

“If it’s only that, I can assure you that – like anyone else – I was much more incline to follow my Es back when I was younger. Done quite a lot of experimenting of my own. If I’d found you – we would have been absolutely brilliant even then,” he said longingly. 

I suspected he wouldn’t have bothered with the addict angry at the world that I’d been, but I decided not to say that. If he’d found me even before that, maybe he would have saved me from that particular bout of idiocy. Or I would have dragged him down with me. That did not bear thinking about. “I think everything went for the best as it did, honestly,” I confessed. “But if you find a Tardis feel free to visit my younger self and tell him not to be such a self-destructive idiot. I can’t promise I’ll hear you out, though.” Only John could make me reference ridiculous TV shows instead of deleting them. 

“Why don’t you tell yourself? You don’t think that I’d run away by myself on a time machine, do you?” John countered with a smile. 

“Of course not. We’re together. In whatever apparently impossible thing life might decide to throw at us,” I acknowlwedged, smiling back. 

“Exactly.” And John kissed me again.       


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: For the last time, I don’t own a thing. We’ve reached the epilogue, which is in John’s point of view.

For a while, we were in heaven. Sherlock loved me – all of me, weird creature that I was – and sometimes I couldn’t stop smiling simply because he was at my side, in his mind palace or concentrated on a new experiment or just relaxing and enjoying our closeness – it didn’t matter.

Sherlock had confessed that a version of me (one he took great care to update since my change) lived in his mind palace, too, which made me feel infinitely pleased and not a little honoured – and finally explained that it wasn’t because my existence was beneath his notice that he continuously carried conversations with me in my absence. Sherlock looked positively aghast when I confessed that I had thought so, protested loudly against such an absurd thought and then proceeded to kiss me passionately to reaffirm how very important I was to him.

Now I knew that, of course, but I wasn’t certainly about to complain or call any kiss needless. Kisses were always needed. Which was why I made a point to initiate towards him at least three a day, even if usually – obviously – our daily tally was much higher.

We had our own brand if domestic bliss, as well as our adrenaline-fuelled ecstasy when cases came along, and it seemed like nothing at all could hurt us. Naturally, I was wrong.

I had always known that Moriarty would be back to haunt us like the evil spirit he was – and were we that sure that this was just me being overdramatic? If I was a werecreature couldn’t he be an actual demon? He was certainly sadistic enough. Silliness – according to Sherlock at least – aside, we weren’t entirely ready for it when the mad criminal came back. Or at least, I wasn’t.

His return literally made my hair stand on end, and a dark growl seemed permanently stuck in the back of my throat. I wouldn’t let him toy with my Sher – I’d rather tear him apart with my bare hands. But Moriarty never exposed himself. He manipulated people, used them like puppets, but he was too much of a bloody coward to act on his own. To come in the range of my gun.

No, he was hellbent on destroying us – on destroying Sherlock, more exactly – but, twisted creature that he was, not through any straightforward means I could have easily dealt with. No, instead the bastard managed to turn everyone – Scotland Yard included – against us. As if Sherlock could have organized all this to attain fame. He’s always been mildly uncomfortable with the media circus that I had inadvertently started (and never before been sorry for, because the world deserved to know how amazing my love was). Didn’t the policemen know that? How could they believe that twaddle?

Such an attack had been awfully timed too, because that day would be the first day of a full moon, and I felt wild enough without any of the added stress. So you see, when our territory – our own _home_ – was invaded and we were attacked and insulted – no matter how soothing and reasonable my Sher was trying to be – if I reacted violently it was only to be expected. They were trying to take my mate away from me, and I naturally wouldn’t – couldn’t – stand for it. It took two people to subdue me, and only because one of them was Lestrade, which I was still reluctant to hurt despite his betrayal. At least that had the desired effect, as I was arrested, like Sherlock had been. We’d be together still – and it was the only thing that mattered.

When we daringly escaped, I could have kissed him (and only just refrained). No doubt he was doing this for me – otherwise after spending tonight in a cell we’d have some poignant questions to answer. We took refuge at Bart’s. Molly was pack, too, and not so silly to let herself doubt Sherlock’s character.

Actually, she was quite intuitive. It wasn’t long after my change – well, not long after I’d dared to resume a normal life after it – that she told me, “Something is different about you. I can’t pinpoint exactly what, but you’ve changed.”

Naturally, I tried to play it off as nothing, assuring her that I was still good old John Watson. “Yes, of course. I just mentioned it because – you know that you can tell me anything, don’t you? I won’t judge. I will help, if you need. Anything at all,” she replied, smiling shyly.

Well, now we needed help, so naturally we’d gone to her, and she’d received us with a smile, offered her help to smuggle us later if we needed to find a different refuge, and gone so far as to offer her own flat as a safe place for us. Bless Molly.  

Then I received a call. “You’re the emergency contact of one Mrs. Martha Hudson. She’s just been shot,” a kind voice said. I was, naturally, aghast. It was Moriarty – or one of the assassins he’d planted in Baker Street. It was our fault that she’d been caught in the crossfire.

“Let’s go,” I prompted, explaining what had happened. I didn’t care of the police expected our arrive and tried to capture us at the hospital. I could deal with them. Absurdly, Sherlock refused, dismissing my suggestion entirely.

“She might be dying, Sherlock!” I urged, this side of yelling.

“And I’d lose a landlady. There’s got to be a heir to 221B that’d take over her duties,” he replied, shrugging. I didn’t recognize him. He’d once attacked brutally someone for landing a finger on her. When had my love been swapped with an alien clone?

“She’s pack,” I growled.

“Yes, well, _I_ ’m not a dog,” he sneered. He’d never been so scornful towards my nature, not even at the start.

It wounded me, but I bit back, “And thank God for that,” clearly implying he wasn’t worthy enough to be one. “But you’re grossly mistaken if you think to be a human being, too,” I added angrily.

“And what creature would I be?” Sherlock queried, sounding mildly curious.

Fuck it. Fuck _him._ “When you behave like that you ain’t no living creature, you…you machine!” I spit. “You know what? Sod it. _I_ ’m going to see Mrs. Hudson,” I declared hotly.

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said coldly. And I didn’t.

Only that I soon discovered that it had all been a trick- did Sherlock know it? Was that why he hadn’t wanted to come? And above all, why didn’t he bloody say so? I ran back, heart in my throat, terrified by what Moriarty might have done in the meantime…and I found a nightmare. 

Sherlock on the roof, spitting absurd falsehoods (didn’t he remember that I could smell out lies? He wouldn’t be able to trick me – certainly not for as long as he confessed he had), and saying, “It’s my note.”

No begging “Please,” no desperate, “I love you,” no choked, “Sher,” could persuade him, and he... he… well, even knowing what happened afterwards, I can’t say it at all. It was a nightmare, a horrible nightmare I prayed to wake up from. I know I howled my anguish like a lost soul, again and again, unable to stop…and then suddenly, while I tried to stop people from taking Sherlock’s body away – away from me again, and so very worse than it had been a few hours before – someone was at my side.

“Let him go,” Mycroft said, kind but firm. What was he doing here? …Why hadn’t he stopped Sherlock?

“I can’t,” I whined.

“You have to,” he replied, putting a guiding hand on my arm and trying to gently drag me away. “You’re alive, and time goes on. Assuming I allowed the both of you to just keep laying here…what happens tonight?”

“Do you think I care?” I barked, allowing myself to be led by a fraction, no strength to resist him. Tonight we would have run together…but Sherlock hadn’t heard my begging, and decided to leave me instead. What the wolf would do in his grief was the last of my thoughts.

“No, but he would have. And for him, if nothing else, I’ll make sure you’re seen to tonight,” Mycroft declared, and I couldn’t help but think how he could be so bloody calm in presence of his sibling’s dead body. Was he really that unfeeling? Was he even human?

 Body which people were once again trying to remove, and I finally allowed it (the pavement looked so uncomfortable for him), but tugged on the eldest Holmes’ grip, wanting to follow. He held strong, stopping me.

I growled my displeasure, and groused, “If he’d cared, he wouldn’t have jumped. But you can’t keep us apart.”

“I won’t. Not for long, at least. But please, John, don’t doubt him, and don’t doubt me either. Come along, doctor. I promise, it will take a short time, but I need you to trust me to know better now,” the elder Holmes insisted, in a mellow voice. I could smell no lie on him. He really didn’t mean to keep me apart from Sherlock for long.

In the end, I agreed, because no matter how much I wanted to be by my beloved’s side forever, he had already left me. He had left and I didn’t care about anything anymore. I didn’t care about what happened to me. I’d let Mycroft send me running his errands for a while, and hope it was dangerous. Hope it was deadly. I wouldn’t fight – not for my life, and certainly not Mycroft. All the fight in me had trickled away with my mate’s spilled blood. The politician put me inside one of his ever-present cars, and I curled up on the seat and started crying silently.   

For hours I was unaware of the world, closed off in my grief, until the name of a village I saw from the window jumped at my attention, awakening a different batch of memories from the ones plaguing me until then. Were we…were we going to Baskerville?

Was this the elder Holmes’ version of making sure I was ‘seen to’? Put me under a microscope – make me a bloody guinea pig? Oh, this was just typical Mycroft. He must have itched to do so since I revealed the truth about my secret to him, and without Sherlock around to protest anymore he’d seized the moment.    

Unless it was something even darker than he’d been planning. He promised me I wouldn’t be long separated from my mate. Did he mean to have me killed so his scientists could do a complete post-mortem instead of analysing only a few samples? It was fine, I decided. It was all fine. I’d just have to helpfully remind them to use silver bullets, or knives, or however they meant to put me out of my misery. I’d have to thank them for it, really.

They didn’t bring me to the Baskerville facility, though. We stopped in the middle of the moor, literally nowhere…and then I saw Sherlock. Oh, good. I was hallucinating again. At least I liked this one. Wait a moment, I could smell him too. How detailed was this delusion? I ran to him…and met his solid body. Not a delusion, then? He hugged me tight.

“You’re alive,” I croaked, hugging back with all my strength.

“Of course,” he countered, smiling.

“Why?” I growled, pushing him to the ground.

“They were going to shoot you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. While I highly doubt that they’d be equipped with silver bullets, I’d rather keep our landlady around for a while still,” he explained, huffing as I’d driven the breath out of him.

I nuzzled him. “I knew that you cared about her. And why didn’t you tell me it was a bloody trick?” I growled, angry at him for his bloody stunt.

“But I _told_ you. I said, ‘ It’s all a magic trick,’ remember? What more could I say,” he bit back, smiling and apparently nonplussed by my righteous fury.

“Idiot,” I groused.

“No, really, I _am_ sorry John, but I needed an honest reaction out of you to persuade Moriarty’s snipers that their plan worked,” Sherlock stated oh-so-reasonably. As if that made it any better.

“I hate you,” I said, not moving from above him.

“You love me,” he corrected me with a smug smile.

“I do,” I admitted, sighing.

“Now, for our plans. After the funeral – which I expect you to attend, and behave properly – you’re going to escape the inevitable media circus and join Doctors Without Borders,” Sherlock announced.

“Am I?” I asked, smiling. “And don’t worry about the funeral. I’ll write you a eulogy you’ll be proud of,” I promised.

“No, no!” my love chided. “Your true grief would be wordless in public, and I need you to be natural if we are to protect Mrs. Hudson. Not raise any suspicion. I was almost tempted to show myself only after the funeral, but I promised you that I’d be there for your changes and I wasn’t going to disappoint. Which should have clued you about my ‘suicide’ too. If I meant to really kill myself I’d have seen you through the full moon one last time before, at least.”

“Fine, I won’t read my eulogy in public. I’ll just write it for the two of us. I know you’re curious,” I stated. His slight blush told me I was right. “But why Doctor Without Borders?” I inquired, puzzled.

“Moriarty’s criminal web spans over several continents, and I need to destroy it in case he’s left some long-standing orders against us. The volunteer work would give you an excuse to leave London and accompany me. We finally have the occasion to go on a proper hunt, John. I don’t want to do it without you,” my love explained.

“Of course you aren’t going anywhere without me!” I declared vibrantly.

“Come with me now. I’ll show you the place Mycroft secured for us. Isolated, just like we need. I thought Baskerville would be a good place for a werewolf and a ghost to have a short holiday,” my Sher said, pushing me off him and tugging my arm at the same time.

“It will be perfect,” I agreed. As long as we were together, everything would be.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. As I can’t write action to save my life, this is where I’ll leave you for the moment. (I might come back to this verse, but I have no idea when, and certainly not this year.) I can assure you that with John by his side there’d be no torturing Sherlock, though.


End file.
